Broken Mirrors
by Cadaverous Apples
Summary: Sometimes Ginny just wanted to break mirrors just so it'd be certain to live for another seven years. She wondered if seeing her face splinter like Draco's mind already had would be worth it. DG. DARK.
1. I: Defiance is beautiful

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.

One

"Defiance is beautiful. The defiance of power, especially great or overwhelming power, exalts and glorifies the rebel."

—Robert Frost

* * *

Ginny stared down at the lightly gleaming tip of her wand in stunned silence, unable to grasp what the hazy green glow meant. Here, crouched in a grubby alley, certainly wasn't the moment to be shocked into inaction, listening to the sounds of fighting right around the corner. She hadn't been able to resist the bizarre urge to use the spell before she hurtled into battle on the heels of her comrades, but now she wished she hadn't even heard of the blasted spell.

"_Finite Incantatem," _she murmured, watching the green light disappear and leave her in darkness once more. She shifted on her heels, ignoring the protesting ache of her slowly cramping muscles as she cast the spell again and watched the sickly green light that reminded her so much of the Killing Curse ignite the inky blackness once more.

She couldn't bring the right thoughts to her mind that could describe the confusing depths of her feelings. That green light should have been a happy sign: something to rejoice about with her family, not loathe on the edge of a battle with similar green lights zooming in front of her hiding place with oh-so-different meanings.

Ginny cast the spell again, hoping it was a mistake and she'd soon see the crimson glow of a light like the Cruciatus Curse. Instead, that green light turned her shaking, white hands into alien limbs: pale bones dipped in viridian.

A cry rent the darkness, spurring Ginny into action. Green light or no, she was needed for a far more important cause. She pushed herself to her feet, swiping back greasy red locks and flexing life back into her protesting limbs. She shot a disdainful look at the weak green glow and dismissed it with a shake of her wand before darting out of the alleyway and into the main street.

It took less than a second for her to adjust to the chaotic scene that met her eyes. Multicolored spells electrified the still night air with sharp bursts of syllables that twisted themselves into indiscernible spells. The streetlamps offered a more reliable source of light, giving her a view of a narrow street, far narrower than a modern one, with cobbled stones and tiny apartments squashed together like crooked teeth. Excluding the spells, the scene was painted almost monochromatically: sickly yellow, withered grey, and devouring black.

A quick sweep identified familiar dark shapes dancing around looming unfamiliar ones, and she used that knowledge to sling her first incapacitating curse at her victim, a tall man with flowing robes and a mask the color of ivory. He hadn't noticed her arrival and had been preparing to sling a curse at a luminescent figure with long strands of moonlight-white hair.

"_Stupefy!" _she uttered quietly, moving on to her next target as soon as she saw the first collapsing to the ground.

Sometimes she hated that her morals prevented her from using Darker curses, knowing that the Death Eaters she'd use them on would more than deserve it. They certainly didn't have such scruples when it came to attacking them. She _knew _the spells, because knowledge is power and she'd heard them enough to be able to use them in her sleep, but something always stopped her. Sometimes she thought that "something" was the only thing that separated her from them.

Ginny saw a shorter Death Eater turn towards her, and she dove to the ground in a roll, anticipating the jet of brilliant green light fired from his wand, before leaping up to return with a vicious "_Duro_!"

It was one of the spells she used the most often, simply because it was easier to say than most of the other spells that had more than two syllables. Many of the Order members frowned on her usage of it, protesting that turning the Death Eaters to stone was too harsh of a punishment, despite the fact it could be reversed. Ginny refused to quit using it for the efficiency of the unexpected grey light that startled Death Eaters who were used to the red beams of stunners.

Ginny considered it a test in restraint: as long as she could resist the urge to blast a statue into a million tiny pieces, she knew she wasn't that far gone.

She found herself back-to-back with a much taller figure, and used the sturdy presence to push forward in a sudden burst to leap at an unsuspecting Death Eater. Dependency on wands was a weakness she'd quickly learned to utilize, having no qualms with dealing a literally below-the-belt kick to bring a man to his knees. The _Stupefy _was dreadfully easy to accomplish when he was so occupied.

Ginny spun to the side, knowing she was vulnerable to attack with her back to the fight. Turning back around, stringy red hair whipping across her smudged cheeks, she was glad to note that this time, at least, they had the upper hand. They had expected this: their patrol group of five matched the number of Death Eaters, but the disparity in experience levels was painfully obvious.

She felt the bitter disappoint rising in her chest as she watched the rest of her group easily take down the last Death Eater. It wasn't supposed to be this easy. They had been given intel that Antonin Dolohov was supposed to be on this patrol, but all they had encountered was a bunch of greenhorns. A waste of a night.

"Bloody fuck," a tall figure cursed as he took a swing at one of the Death Eaters on the ground.

A woman with straggly blonde hair placed a restraining hand on his arm, but Ginny could see the twist of her mouth that revealed that she was just as frustrated as they all were.

"I'm fucking tired of all these red herrings!" he continued on, glaring down at the lumpy figure.

"Control yourself, Finnigan," came the cool voice of Adrian Pucey, one of the only ex-Slytherins to defect to the Order of the Phoenix. His cool blue eyes gazed down a thin aquiline nose to meet the shorter man's defiant glare.

"Seamus," Luna Lovegood murmured, pulling slightly on his arm.

He cast a dismissive glance at the blonde woman, before looking back with a softened gaze. "Sorry," he apologized grudgingly.

Ginny exchanged a knowing look with Luna, whose large blue eyes looked haunted. Sooner or later, he was going to wind up dead because of that temper.

"Help me with these wankers, would you?" Terry Boot growled as he rolled a comatose Death Eater closer to the stone one.

Seamus and Adrian began to tow the bodies into a relatively large pile, while Ginny strode closer to the taller blonde woman. Luna was already fiddling with a copy of today's _Daily Prophet, _wand brandished as Ginny kept a wary eye on their perimeter. The paper was all but useless nowadays; the _Prophet _had been the first to fall to Voldemort, with the Ministry of Magic quickly following into the cesspool of corruption that had befallen most legal avenues. It was surprising they still even printed the rag.

Wordlessly, Luna handed the newly turned Portkey to Ginny. The redhead spared a glance at the headline—_ORDER CAUSES MORE CHAOS—_before sneering in disgust and looking away. It had been a long time since the Order of the Phoenix was looked upon with any kind of respect or hope.

"I'll take these back," Adrian informed them as he gestured towards the pile of Death Eaters, verbalizing a routine that was so ingrained in the group that it was only wasted breath.

The Death Eaters were bound tightly with lengths of rope to the granite façade of the stone Death Eater, their wands successfully secured in Adrian's hand. Ginny handed him the Portkey, and he placed it on the closest Death Eater while keeping a hand on it himself. The Portkey activated a moment later, vanishing the pile of Death Eaters to the designated receiving bay in headquarters. Seamus and Terry Disapparated away with twin pops a second later. Ginny and Luna waited half a moment longer before Disapparating to a couple of streets away from their hideout in the slums.

It was routine. Adrian took the Death Eaters back while the rest of them split into pairs and Disapparated to various locations around headquarters, each pair returning at different times to prevent any sort of attention being drawn to them. She and Luna were always the last to leave and had to walk the farthest to return to headquarters. Seamus and Adrian had usually finished the debriefing by the time they returned.

Luna was silent as they returned to headquarters. Neither felt the need to talk, and the words that had been exchanged earlier between the group were unorthodox and a result of long nights spent hunting and being hunted in a cruel dance that wreaked havoc on everyone's sanity.

Ginny didn't remember the last full night of sleep she had. Sometimes, she wondered if her insomnia was even a reality. When she did sleep, her dreams were so lucid, so vivid and bloody, that she had to confirm with Luna in a ragged, broken voice that the monstrosities she had just seen weren't real. It was impossible to discern reality from fantasy, and that more than anything frightened Ginny. She didn't want to sleep for fear that she'd wake up in an even greater nightmare.

"Ginny," Luna said softly, startling her out of her reverie.

She had to force herself to unclasp her wand that she'd so unconsciously grabbed, half-drawn from her pocket already.

"Sorry," Ginny muttered, realizing that the reason Luna had spoken was because they were there. "There" being a half-buried door that you needed permission from their Secret Keeper to see, crammed between a basement window and a pile of garbage.

The grey paint on the building was in scattered, flaky patches that did little to disguise the visible mold and mildew made even more prominent by the flickering of the lonely streetlight. Luna needed Ginny's help to even access their headquarters. The wards would only let two people in at a time, and it was organized so that neither knew the entire password and spell combination to enter the base. Ginny, however, knew both halves, although she made sure that no one else was aware of that fact. The Order was just oh-so-wary of traitors after—

"Loquacious crimson craters," Ginny uttered, the password of the day slipping from her lips in a near whisper that Luna wouldn't have been able to decipher even if she wanted to.

There was the sound of locks undoing themselves—a paltry defense—before the door swung open and they darted inside like the half-drowned rats they appeared to be, following the slope of the floor as it took them beneath the apartments above. Ginny didn't bother to survey the familiar foyer for differences. It was the same as it had been for the past three years that this building—if it could be called such—had been their headquarters.

"Ginny, in the kitchen," Seamus called to her.

She gave a nod to Luna and left the blonde, unraveling the raggedy scarf from her neck as she went. Luna was content to know less rather than more, so she had requested to be excluded from knowing all but pertinent information. Ginny, on the other hand, probably knew more than half of the Order combined.

The bright lights momentarily stunned her as she entered the kitchen before her eyes refocused with a speed that was learned rather than natural. Half-ringed around the table were the current leaders of the Order, with Seamus and Adrian on either side. It was remarkable to see the change in the three who had all but taken control of the Order with the death of Mad-Eye Moody and Remus Lupin: the Golden Trio were quite a bit more tarnished than they had been nine years ago when the war had really started in earnest with Dumbledore's death.

The Boy Who Lived was known better now as the Boy Who Barely Lived. Ginny met his murky green eyes, deep-set and surrounded by bruised shadows in a haggard face, and had to look away. Long gone was the boy that she had longed for with the innocence of youth. In his place was a broken man, one who had died too many times with each successive failure and death of Order members.

It was harder to look at the lanky redhead at his side. Ginny tried not to, but she couldn't resist the compulsion that she felt and the ache in her chest that threatened to consume her when she caught sight of the subtle arm wrapped around his waist, a visible sign that Hermione Granger was the only thing preventing him from collapsing to the floor.

Two years in Azkaban after the regulations against torture were dropped can do that to a person. Ron Weasley had died long ago. Ginny hadn't heard his voice in years, and sometimes when he looked at her, she wondered if he even truly existed on any level. Those dead, unseeing eyes reminded Ginny more of a corpse than many of the dead that she'd actually seen.

Out of the three, it seemed like Hermione Granger was the one who had retained the most humanity over the years. Her bushy hair was a dim memory; Ginny couldn't remember the last time she'd seen those long locks. A Death Eater had sliced them off, and Hermione maintained it as a fluffy halo around her head.

Ginny understood Hermione's reasoning for keeping her hair, once such a large part of the older girl's identity, shorn. The wicked, jagged scar that stretched across her throat like a macabre second smile had been a gift to her from Yaxley, and it was only quick thinking that had saved Hermione from losing her head. Now it served as a visible reminder for everyone just what they risked for fighting on the side of the Order.

"Ginny, Seamus just informed us that Dolohov wasn't on the patrol you detained," Hermione said, her voice as flat as her expression.

Ginny forced herself not to recoil in the face of such lack of emotion. Sometimes she was afraid she looked exactly the same.

"Yes," Ginny confirmed. "Are you sure the tip-off was sound?"

Hermione nodded mechanically, her eyes fixed on a curious pile of necklaces in the center of the table that Ginny's hadn't previously noticed. "You know that despite his numerous faults, Pritchard is loyal."

Ginny did know that. She had worked with Graham herself to prepare him for the rigors of being a double agent. He, too, was one of the few ex-Slytherins they had attracted.

"What are those?" Ginny asked casually while leaning forward against the table.

She had an inkling that she knew exactly what the innocent-looking pile was. They were the source of her current green light problems. Well, maybe not the source, but they had certainly started it.

"We found them on the Death Eaters. They seem to be some kind of amulets," Adrian answered.

Ginny watched Hermione nod distractedly as she eyed the pile with a vague sort of interest that Ginny recognized as some of the old Hermione peeking through. She reached out to touch one, and Ginny's instincts got the better of her.

"Don't touch them!" she said sharply, freezing Hermione in her motions. At her side, Harry raised an eyebrow, the first sign of life Ginny had seen from him since she'd entered.

"Ginny?" Seamus questioned, looking at her as if she was about to have a breakdown.

She forced a laugh to her lips that sounded more like a barking cough. "Years of not touching Fred and George's experiments have conditioned me well."

The excuse fell flat. Ginny was hoping they'd only assume it was because she was replacing "dangerous Dark objects found on Death Eaters' bodies" with "Fred and George's experiments" and _not _outright lying to them. Which she was.

"Right," Seamus said with an uneasy chuckle of his own that died quickly.

Ginny took that moment to examine the pile on the pitted table. Each amulet was strung on a chain of fine silver, and, although Ginny couldn't actually tell the type of metal used for the necklaces, she was quite positive they'd be real silver. Each one was about the size of an egg and roughly octagonal in shape. They weren't flat, either: they seemed to be somewhat convex, which Ginny found interesting. There was a chunk of stone embedded in each one, unpolished, rough, and slightly reddish in color.

"Are you going to Fred and George's?" Harry asked her, startling her out of her examination with his gravelly voice. He sounded as if he'd swallowed coals, which probably would have been preferable to what had actually happened.

"Of course," Ginny replied, shying away from the memories that threatened to envelop her like a gaping maw.

"Can you take the amulets to them to determine what exactly they are supposed to be used for?"

Ginny nodded absently, withdrawing her wand and Vanishing them easily. She had a bone or two to pick with her dearest older brothers, anyway.

* * *

Ginny Apparated to the middle of the deserted street on the outskirts of Edinburgh, the distant sounds of the city reaching her straining ears almost instantly. She had already drawn her hood over her straggly red hair, and she distractedly pushed a few stray strands back as she hurriedly began down the lane, eager to pick up a spare hair tie at Fred and George's. The Ministry had cut off water to certain parts of the slums in an attempt to flush out the Order, but the only thing that had accomplished was a lessened dedication to personal hygiene.

She always looked forward to her visits to Fred and George's because of the chance to take a luxuriating bath. The sad state of her hair was due to of a rough two weeks or so without a good washing. She usually limited her bath time to cleaning her body instead of her long hair (her only remaining vanity) because her apartment was in part of the city where the Ministry had cut off water.

The end of the road was landmarked with a squalid hut surrounded by dead grass and bits of trash. The sky was as clear as it could be a fair distance away from the light pollution cast by the city, and the glittering cascade of stars made the scene almost surreal. She headed straight past the decrepit building, pausing only to tap a tiny stone at the base of the left wall twice with her wand before pacing out into the packed dirt yard. She counted her steps in her head: _nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen._

There was nothing unique about the patch of dry earth she had stopped before. A few persistent weeds had found their way through the surface to sway lightly in the breeze, silvery white and nearly swallowed by shadows in the dark night. It looked like every other bit of land in the deserted lot, and that was exactly what it was meant to look like. If you didn't know what was there, you'd have no hope of finding it.

Ginny crouched, using her wand to trace symbols into the dry earth. One was a wavy line with a round head that resembled a snake and the other was a curved half-circle topped by a thicker line. These she put beside each other. Another two symbols were a circle with a line drawn through it and what appeared to be the letter "F" without the second dash. The final two symbols, completing the triangle, were a sort of cup shape with one side of the cup bisecting in a downward line and a symbol that looked like a lowercase "Y."

Ridiculous, just like Fred and George. Each pair of symbols were letters—Egyptian hieroglyphics, Cyrillic, Greek—that translated to "F" and "G". Ginny watched an unseen wind swirl the light dust until the symbols were no more, and then she heard the slight "snick" that indicated the door had opened. Standing, she briefly observed the changes in the landscape.

A mere inches in front of her stood a doorway, a yawning inky oblivion that appeared more like a pit than a welcoming entrance. It was difficult to discern the rectangle in the pitch of night, but the complete lack of light within the doorway made it obvious because she was so close. It was the reason no one visited them during the day: a large block of ebony would be ever so obvious under the golden sun.

She stepped inside the doorway and felt the whoosh of air as it closed behind her, leaving her momentarily blind. The ground underneath her feet gave a jolt of movement, almost reminiscent of an elevator, before it stumbled to a halt and a light flickered on.

The hanging bulb illuminated an empty room, bare of anything save a lonely wooden door on the opposite wall. Ginny didn't have to turn around or look up to know that there'd be no sign of her entry point, and she strode unhesitatingly to the far door. The next room looked only slightly more lived in, Spartan in its adornments. The couch looked ratty and well-loved, as did the battered coffee table with a smudged glass filled with an unidentifiable liquid inside. There was no determining its age.

There were two doorways branching out of this room. One was a closed door on the far wall, and a little to the left was an empty doorway that led to the kitchen. Ginny went there first, pausing at the refrigerator to find something to drink. Fred and George had been unsuccessful in their attempts to harness the Muggle eckeltricity in their home, and had, instead, simply used magic in its place, a usage that she wasn't quite sure had been used anywhere else.

Inside the refrigerator she found a few beers, a bottle of Firewhiskey, and a hunk of cheese. Such items were worth a small fortune to those connected to the Order because of how impossible it had become to venture into the public, but Ginny had no desire for the alcohol. She couldn't risk losing control of herself in such precarious times. She snagged a glass from the cupboard and got some water from the tap, and then headed lazily over to the closed door that led to the living room. Her brothers rarely ventured outside of their workroom-cum-bedroom anyway, so she'd have to go to them.

The light was almost blinding inside, a drastic difference from the dim lighting of the earlier rooms. Balls of witchlight floated unhindered against the ceiling, illuminating every wooden shelf in the room. It looked like a library, minus the books. This was their storeroom: goods of every kind were stacked in boxes—or not in boxes, as the case was for a few—with hastily scribbled words on them that gave insight as to what they contained. Ginny had spent a large amount of time going through their inventions, so she knew much of what was contained in these boxes.

She also knew that she had never seen a small percentage of her brothers' inventions. It was necessary, for her safety and theirs—without hard evidence, she wouldn't be able to reveal to any Death Eaters if she was captured that she knew her brothers were double agents. Plausible deniability. She suspected, but she had never received confirmation from them. Nor would she. What her brothers did was outside the sanctioning of the Order of the Phoenix, and they preferred it that way. Ginny was one of the few that ever saw them.

She strode through the dark wooden shelves to the next room, which was a bit homier than the previous one. Two twin beds were jammed into a corner, unmade, and a bureau was pressed equally close. Grinning, waving pictures peered at her cheerfully in neat rows on the bureau, still trapped in a world where one could actually be happy. The walls were painted a dark green color and more witchlights floated near the ceiling. On the right wall was a door leading to a bathroom and a large workbench. Another workbench was directly to the left of the door and it was here that she found Fred.

Her stocky older brother wasn't that stocky anymore, and the only thing distinguishing him from her other older brothers was his lack of height. He certainly wasn't short by any means, but he didn't tower over her like the rest of her siblings did. He turned his head towards her briefly when she walked in before he went back to fiddling with the small black box he had on his workbench. His hair was long and stringy with grease, matching Ginny's. That reminded her to draw down her hood, and she frowned at him.

"You haven't been taking care of yourself," she accused, knowing how hypocritical that sounded coming from her. Coming from _any _of them.

Fred shrugged in response. "Haven't had the time," he dismissed lowly.

She didn't want to ask what he was working on for fear of not receiving an answer, so she didn't comment and placed her glass down on his bureau before pulling off her cloak and tossing it on the closest bed.

"George?"

"He's at work," Fred replied to the implied question.

Ginny fought the frown, but didn't succeed. George had a "normal" job, and that alone signaled that he was working for the Death Eaters. She knew without asking what they worked on for the Ministry. She wished she didn't.

It was George's job, with Fred's help, that had sucked the cheer out of her older brothers' golden brown eyes, a darker color than her amber ones. She could easily guess the things they created to keep the Ministry satisfied. She wondered how they could cope with the gripping, carnivorous guilt that must eat at them every time they created a new product for the Ministry, and she knew it was only made better by the fact that they had each other.

Ginny, despite her intentions, envied them for the unalienable support they had from each other. She could only be so lucky.

She didn't bother announcing to her brother that she was going to take a shower, and strode over to the small bathroom. She stripped quickly, folding her clothes to put on top of the toilet, and then jumped into the shower, using their precious little hot water to clean the stickiness out of her hair. It was a quick shower because she didn't have much time to waste, but outside of the shower she hesitated, feeling too large for the tiny bathroom and fixated on a single object.

The fog had obscured the mirror, and she had avoided looking at it as she stepped into the bathroom. With her left hand holding the thin towel up, she used her right hand to swipe clear a section of the mirror to reveal her reflection.

At first she didn't notice the difference between the alabaster wall behind her and her skin, but the faint pink tinge gave her flesh away, scrubbed raw by a worn hand towel. Her eyes looked too big for her face, and her cheekbones stood out starkly, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since that morning. She sometimes forgot to eat, just like she sometimes forgot to do other normal day-to-day things that she knew she should remember.

Sometimes she wondered if it'd be easier if she forgot to breathe.

Her lips were cracked from biting them too often, and she could see the faintest glimmer of an ivory scar curling its way through the edge of her left eyebrow and down an inch across her temple. She'd nearly died from that wound, sliced at the temple and steadily pumping out ruby liquid with the beats of her slowing heart in the depths of London.

Ginny realized with an uncomfortable jolt that she couldn't remember who had saved her that time. Adrian? Terry? Countless other injuries blurred together in her mind, and Ginny felt a pang of loss for something she might never attain again.

Her rapidly drying scarlet hair was her single concession to pride. It fell to her mid-back in long, wavy strands. She usually kept it bound tight and away because she knew that keeping it so long was a serious vulnerability, but sometimes the tie would rip out and she'd be left with it swirling in riotous knots down her back.

Ginny pursed her lips at the woman in the mirror before looking away and getting dressed in the clothes she'd worn before.

Fred was still at his workbench when she emerged from the bathroom, cleaner than she'd been in weeks and marginally more affable. He sensed that she was ready to talk and placed the cube gingerly down as he turned around, bracing his arms on his workbench and gazing at her levelly.

Ginny unflinchingly met his gaze, another reminder of the effects of the war. Although she was looking at him, he wasn't looking at _her._

"Come to chat, sister dear? Or is there something more pressing that hasn't been seen to yet?"

She wanted to hate him for his cruelty, but she couldn't. His humor was more twisted. Dark. And it frequently contained mentions of sight.

As if anyone could ever _forget._

"Hello, Fred," she said softly, moving closer and making sure to scuff her feet against the floor so he'd hear.

His unseeing, perfect eyes tracked her across the room until she was standing in front of him. His gaze was on her nose, missing hers by mere inches. He sighed, the barest release of breath that slumped his shoulders into a position of defeat.

"Ginny," he said with finality.

She wanted to rant and rave, throw things around, break precious glass, do _something _to show that she still _could _be angered, but was unable to in front of her brother. She simply couldn't muster up the will.

"The amulets," she eventually said, watching his face twitch with recognition. He was easier to read now that he didn't have to think about hiding emotions. Ginny wondered if it was because he had truly forgotten what they looked like on other people or if he simply didn't care.

"Did you find some of them?"

"One on each of the Death Eaters from a patrol we jumped tonight. Doubtless the other patrols will have similar results." Ginny un-Vanished the amulets onto his desk, and he turned when he heard the click as they hit the hard surface. While he was distracted, she reached over and grabbed a spare hair tie off the bureau, tying her hair up into a still-wet bun.

"Have you touched them?" he asked urgently, grabbing his wand and waving it over the pile unerringly.

Ginny shook her head before she remembered he couldn't see the movement.

"No. I didn't want to risk it."

She watched him perform a few tests on the amulets as he mumbled to himself with words she didn't catch. She gave him a few minutes to stew on the new mystery she had provided him with before jumping to her point.

"Fred, I need to know where Draco Malfoy currently is."

Fred's movement stilled above the amulets. He half-turned towards her, brow furrowing into a frown.

"Why? We don't need you to go see him; we have the amulets now."

Ginny gritted her teeth. She didn't want to tell him about the green light. Her mind raced, crafting possible lies and discarding them with brutal efficiency. In the end, however, she decided to avoid lying altogether.

"I need his location, Fred."

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with unspoken words. Words like _No _and _I have to _and _Be careful. _They both knew they had secrets, and Ginny was hoping that this knowledge would prompt Fred to give her Malfoy's location out of respect for her secrets.

"Will you come back later to talk to George?"

Fred's voice was deceptively calm, a soft inquiry tinged with pleasantness. Ginny instantly saw through it: he was going to give her the address, and that was his way of asking for her to check back with them to confirm that she hadn't been killed in the process of whatever foolhardy errand she was going on.

"Of course," she agreed amicably.

It would be easier to confront them about the amulets with George there. The guilt was always diminished when George was there to draw her gaze, preventing her from dwelling on Fred's beautiful, beautiful eyes. Beautiful eyes that would never again see because the optic nerves had been forcibly removed.

"We've got his current place of dwelling on the northern side of London, nearby the Liriope Theatre."

Ginny's brow wrinkled at the unfamiliar name.

"Liriope?" she questioned, and Fred shrugged.

"You'll find it," he answered dismissively, turning back to the amulets. Ginny noticed that he didn't continue to experiment on them.

"Alright," she said finally. "Thank you."

"No problem," her older brother said, hand white-knuckled on his wand. "Just remember to come back for George."

_Don't get yourself killed, please._

"I won't," Ginny promised, throat tight, not realizing she had answered his unspoken words before she slipped back out of the room.

Tracking back to the first room, she used her wand to tap the far wall three times—two fast, one long—and then waited for the room to drop back into darkness before she could exit. Once she was outside in the still dark, she contemplated her actions.

Ginny could either go hunting for Malfoy now or later, and right now seemed the best bet. She knew he was a nocturnal being, so if she waited until morning there would be a better chance that'd he'd _Avada _her first and sneer later. So tonight it would be, even though that would give him an advantage, especially since she'd be literally walking right into his hands.

_Well, better go now before I lose my nerve, _she told herself with a twisted grin, knowing that such a possibility was little to none because she was _Ginny Weasley _and Ginny Weasley hadn't ever lost her nerve. She Disapparated away and appeared in a deserted street in London, using the stars to guide her north. Luckily, it didn't take her long to get to her destination, but, unluckily, she realized it might not be that much help.

The Liriope Theatre was closed and looked like it had been for the entirety of Ginny's existence. She squinted up at the crumbling façade, trying not to frown at the empty street. She didn't really know what she had been expecting—maybe a sign saying _DRACO MALFOY LIVES HERE_ would have been nice—but this dead end in the heart of London with no one in sight certainly wasn't it. There were no signs of life in the bare street, dimly lit by orange street lamps.

Had she really expected to just stumble upon Draco Malfoy? It was a laughable thought, at best, but she knew that she hadn't given it much consideration. Perhaps she should have—

Ginny suddenly stilled, her heart rate tripling as her breath all but froze in her lungs. She was all-too-aware of the delicate pressure of a thin piece of wood against her temple. A dark chuckle nearly made her jerk in surprise, an action that would have been deadly if she startled her captor.

"Well, well, well," came the velvety purr, fluttering the hairs on Ginny's neck. "What's a little weasel doing waltzing into a dragon's den?"

* * *

A/N: So . . . wow. Hmm. I don't want to pollute this with too many thoughts yet, so I'll leave it at that. Beta'd by the lovely **Boogum**, and thanks in addition to **imadoodlenoodle**, **starlit-skyes**, **Lovers-Love-Liars-Lie **(but with periods instead of dashes), and **Phrontist** for all the feedback and help in crafting this idea and first chapter.

Notes:

-the "crooked teeth" image rightfully belongs to the band Death Cab for Cutie from the song of that same name

-the idea of cutting off the water supply to the slums to "flush out the resistance" is taken from the video game _Jak II_

Thank you for reading!

Roma


	2. II: Our adversaries are insane

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.

Two

"The rule is perfect: in all matters of opinion, our adversaries are insane."

—Mark Twain, _Christian Science

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_

_"Well, well, well," came the velvety purr, fluttering the hairs on Ginny's neck. "What's a little weasel doing waltzing into a dragon's den?"_

"Malfoy," Ginny breathed out, lips barely moving in an effort to prevent any sudden movements.

"Weasley."

The pleasant response came barely inches away from her throat. She hoped he was examining her profile in the dim lighting for changes and not trying to unnerve her, but she knew it was the latter because it was working so well.

"It's been a while, love. How have you been?"

His voice, so warm and friendly, had the impact of nails on a chalkboard to Ginny, or cold water rushing down her spine. It was all wrong for the situation: not here in the middle of Death Eater London, not during the middle of a war, and certainly not to someone he hadn't truly seen in years. Not as a Malfoy to a Weasley, and not as a Death Eater to an Order member.

Ginny didn't know how to answer him. She didn't know if he even wanted an answer. She did know that Draco Malfoy was Voldemort's prized soldier, the unpredictable element that was predictable in his penchant to be destructive and indiscriminate in causing chaos.

She also was keenly aware of the fact that his wand was still pressed to her temple lightly, a delicate afterthought that made her magic roil frantically in its search for an outlet that she was quite reluctant to supply.

"I need to talk to you," she said instead of answering him.

He made a noise that almost sounded like a "tut" of admonishment, and in the barest of moments the faint pressure on from his wand turned into a grinding pain. Ginny gritted her teeth and held her head stationary, unwilling to show weakness and slip away from the sharp pain of Malfoy's wand stabbing into her temple like a stiletto.

"I was talking to you, little Weasel," he cooed, pressing so close that she could feel the heat of his body radiating into hers from the scant few millimeters that separated them. "It's hard to carry on a conversation with oneself."

There was a brief second's pause before a low chuckle brushed against Ginny's cheek.

She clenched her hand so it would stop shaking. That wasn't the chuckle of someone feigning amusement, or even the dark chuckle of someone who was amused. That was the chuckle of someone who found something genuinely funny and simply couldn't resist the laughter that bubbled out. It was unnerving. Had it been another time, another place, she would have mistaken him for someone else.

No one chuckled and meant it. Not anymore.

"You'll certainly be more entertaining than myself, at any rate," Malfoy continued on conversationally, almost as if he wasn't driving his wand into the side of her face and it wasn't the middle of the night in front of a decrepit theatre. "So, answer the question, Weasley."

"I've been fine," Ginny forced out quickly, eyes seemingly focused with a narrowed intensity on the flaking façade of the once-regal Liriope Theatre. She was hardly seeing it; only on the lowest levels of her consciousness was she still comprehending what she saw in front of her. Everything else was focused on the danger—the _death_—at her back. His wand loosened its attempt to push through her skin and bones, resuming its dainty kiss against her temple.

"That's absolutely smashing, darling," Malfoy said amiably, dragging out the "darling" until it was almost two separate words. _Darrr-ling_. He gave another sound of admonishment when she didn't say anything in return and warningly pressed his wand harder. "Do I have to teach you some manners, Weasley? I knew your parents weren't exactly the crème de la crème, but certainly they should have taught you how to do small talk."

_I've forgotten how_, she wanted to say, but the situation was too bizarre for something so revealing. She'd have to humor him.

"And how have you been, Malfoy?" she questioned with false cheer, feeling his wand let up the pressure again.

She nearly lost all semblance of calm when he started to _tap his wand against her temple_. She expected tiny flares of bright pain to burn against her skin from wayward sparks, but none, surprisingly, erupted. And for that she was beyond grateful, even if he wasn't consciously controlling it himself. She still had the scars on her left calf from the delicate waterfall of sickly green sparks that were ever-so-lovingly cast over the course of several days by Walden Macnair during her brief stint in Azkaban. The particular rhythm Macnair used—_tap, tap, taptaptap_—still caused a cold wave of goosebumps to skitter across her skin.

"Just this side of wonderful, Weasley dear," he said happily, and suddenly the wand stopped its incessant tapping. "Now tell me just what a well-known Order member is doing strolling around by herself, looking for infamous little ol' me."

His voice had lost its jovial tone and was suddenly as brittle as glass. The change left Ginny's mind reeling. She wasn't used to such mercurial emotions being directed at her.

"I was looking for you," Ginny said, ignoring the initial statement that came to mind: _I already told you that I needed to talk to you_. Reminding him that he hadn't been paying attention wouldn't exactly be a brilliant move on her part.

"I'm flattered, Ginny. Gin. Ginger."

She hated that the musical cadence of his voice sent shivers dancing across her scalp as he tried out different variations of her name, tasting the syllables as if they were a thick honey.

"Was there something in particular you wanted to talk to me about? I'm in a bit of a rush, you see," he continued conversationally.

Ginny wanted to turn around and face him so she wouldn't be at such a disadvantage. She wanted to watch the accompanying facial expression that matched his words, wanted to see if what he said was merely an act or if his features lit up with the strength of his emotions.

She wasn't sure which she would prefer.

"Malfoy, I . . ." She trailed off in an angry huff of air. "Dammit, let me turn around, would you? If I was going to attack you, I would have done so already, and if you were going to kill me, you would have done so already. Just let me see your fucking_ face_."

A brief moment's pause, and then that damnable chuckle was slithering its way into her ear. He sounded like someone who had just seen a favorite pet perform a new trick.

"If you wanted to ogle me like a love struck little girl, dear Ginny, all you had to do was say so," he chided softly as the wand pressing against her temple vanished. Warily, Ginny turned on her toes, so achingly slow she was sure her muscles would give out from the biting tension.

And then she was staring down a wand, but that was secondary to the man at the end of it.

Draco Malfoy looked exactly the same as he had nearly a fortnight ago when she'd seen him for the first time in years. She always thought it was horribly, horribly ironic that a man with so much blood on his hands could manage to look so damnably beautiful. His hair was a beacon untouched by the garish tangerine color from the artificial streetlights, falling in hazardous slices around his face at uneven lengths and paler than corn silk. He towered over her in elegant dark clothes, the silver buttons winking at her tauntingly in a mirror to the coils of mercury in his eyes.

His face was a study of angles sharper than knives, porcelain skin stretched taut, and too-thin lips, but he managed to throw together features that would look repulsive on anyone else and turn them into a cruel, radiant visage that taunted Ginny with its terrible beauty. It made her wish that appearances were affected by one's deeds, not ancestry. She wondered if it'd serve as much of a deterrent if putrefying and rotting husks were the reward for torturing and death. Sometimes she was more afraid that it'd only serve as encouragement.

"Merlin's left nut, Weaselette!" Malfoy exclaimed suddenly, and Ginny involuntarily twitched, hand instantly gripping the furiously hot hazel wand in her left pocket.

"What, Mafloy?" Ginny said tersely, only barely resisting the urge to turn a near suicidal situation into a surety.

"You look even more ravishing from the front, beautiful, lovely Ginny," he cooed, seeming to sway unconsciously forward as if drawn by some invisible force.

Ginny stared at those half-lidded eyes incredulously, more frightened than she had been in a long time. She could feel the fluttering, rapid surges of her heart, pounding against its prison of a ribcage in a futile attempt to escape and soar. It was all she could do to keep her breathing even somewhat regulated and not the ragged, gasping breaths that her lungs encouraged her to devolve to. Ginny forced a reply instead.

"And you look just as deadly as you did when I found you standing over the bodies of my parents."

Ginny tried not to look startled that those were the words that slipped past her lips unrestricted.

Malfoy's easy smile widened until it was almost a leer. "I remember that crimson day. I bet you do too, Ginevra. Emerald lights you up so sinfully."

Hooded eyes blinked so slowly that Ginny knew it was a taunt, a blatant show that said, _I don't find you enough of a threat to warrant my full attention_. The accompanying smirk might have helped with that impression as well, but Ginny would not be provoked.

"I'm glad I missed you," Ginny said almost casually, coaxing her left hand to release her wand and raise out of her pocket, examining the jagged nails as if she was actually concerned about their well-being. "I would hate to waste my first _Avada _on the likes of you."

Malfoy cocked his head to the side, a perversely innocent action that looked out of sorts when one considered who he was. Silky locks cascaded across his face, obscuring his left eye and leaving the right in shadow.

"I forget sometimes that you're a virgin," he said, almost to himself.

Ginny knew it was bad when she realized that such a statement didn't inspire any sort of instinctual protestations. The old Ginny would have flushed hotly and snapped that it was none of his business. This Ginny—_the broken one_—merely sighed wearily, raising her right hand to pinch the bridge of her nose while her left dropped back to its usual place, loosely wrapped around her wand.

"There's a sort of poetic irony in using one's first _Avada _against oneself," Ginny confessed, a pang of longing for something—what? Understanding? Sympathy?—flitting through her like a whisper.

Malfoy looked amused, lips curving into a delighted and knowing smirk. "Too bad you don't have any baby Potters around to help you out."

The jab hit, but probably not where he was aiming. She halted the instinctual urge to cradle her flat belly, an instinct that had been hitherto unknown prior to only a couple of hours ago.

"Malfoy, we need to talk."

"And what, pray tell, do you think we're doing, Weasley? I can think of many different euphemisms that might or might not be applicable, but I doubt you'll appreciate any of them."

Ginny looked up at him, frown twisting her brow into snarls as she met his sneer, so reminiscent of their younger days as merely Malfoy and Weasley that a stab of nostalgia shot through her. She shook it off easily.

"Listen, Malfoy. I . . ." she trailed off, at a loss as to what to actually _tell _him. She couldn't very well tell him that she had slept with him for information as per Fred and George's instruction, but really, there wasn't much of an alternative. She _had _slept with him for information. But maybe that would be a good cover for why she was actually there—just give him the bare minimum facts, like she was in Halcyon Days for information, but not specific information.

"I was at Halcyon Days a couple of weeks ago," Ginny told him, and she watched a slim golden eyebrow arch in clear disbelief.

"How?" he questioned, which made her frown a bit before answering. She had thought the logical question would be "why", not "how".

"Polyjuice," she replied simply. "I went as the Muggle woman Margaretha Zelle." If the name stirred any memory in him, he didn't show it.

"Any particular reason you braved our favored den of iniquity?" he questioned lightly, his wand flicking across his lean fingers with a sudden movement that made Ginny jump. She pushed aside the little voice that screamed _Now, do it now while he's not pointing his wand at you! _She didn't need to attack him. Not yet. As much as it hurt her to say so.

Sometimes she wondered just what _would _happen if she ever obeyed that voice.

"Information," she said casually, as if she went to Halcyon Days every weekend to gather information.

"And why does this matter to me?" The question was veiled poison in dripping saccharine, hemlock wrapped in honeycombs. She could literally feel the curse building on the tip of his wand, stilled in those bone-pale hands and pointed directly at her heart. If she didn't provide a satisfactory answer, the consequence was clear.

"Because I met you there."

Another blank stare, and he gave an imperceptible shrug, as if the answer wasn't worthy of his time. A casual wave of the wand, and . . .

"_Avada_—"

Ginny didn't think. She _moved. _One instance she was stationary before him, as docile as a cow led to the slaughter, and the next she was slamming into him, wrapped around _Draco Malfoy's midsection _and crushing them to the ground. She hadn't even given a thought to her wand, still tucked inside her pocket. Instinct was riding her, coursing through her veins in the wake of the boiling adrenaline that rushed through her like a heady drug.

They hit the ground with a whoosh, her breath forced from her lungs barely a millisecond after she felt his escape through their tight pseudo-embrace. She barely had a moment to grasp that she was on top of Draco Malfoy before two vices clamped around her wrists and slung her to the side. The flip was so quick she only felt the jagged fire of the rocks tearing apart her exposed lower back seconds after while she sat stunned, vision obscured by locks of white-gold silk and breath stolen.

And then she was tossing her arms wide, a feral hiss escaping her lips quicker than she realized she even had the air to do so, hearing an answering grunt from Malfoy when her left arm caught a glancing blow to his abdomen. The window for movement was briefer than she would have liked, as he quickly tightened his grip to the point that Ginny could almost hear the bones in her wrists creaking in protest, grinding together like mortar and pestle.

Options dwindling, she tried to raise her knee up sharp enough to deliver a hit, but he seemed to be half a step ahead of her as he pushed her knees wide with his own, settling down until they were flush from groin to chest. His heavy breathing stirred the air near her ear, and each breath she took pressed her breasts even tighter to a slim chest that she remembered all-too-well.

_He was smothering her, invading her—all tight hands and scorching smooth skin and slow, deadly thrusts that seemed to scrape across her inner walls with more time than sin. She tried to breathe evenly, not the tearing gasps that fluttered white-blond hair with every exhale, but it was impossible._

_An electric zing shot through her from her nipples to her toes when a sudden breath teased his nipples over hers, and one of them let out a strangled groan punctuated with an almost uncontrolled jerk of the hips. Ginny wanted to scream at the coil of tension in her core, so tight and hot that she felt she would explode if something didn't happen quicker, sooner, harder—_

_As if hearing her unspoken demands, the indolent push that had him sinking into her inch by torturous inch turned into a nearly violent spearing._

_She bit his shoulder so she wouldn't cry out, and the copper taste of his blood was a welcome distraction before he started to move again and everything vanished._

Ginny's teeth clicked close in a mirror image of that memory. It was so vivid, so palpable, that she wondered that it hadn't just reoccurred.

"I think I remember you now, little Weasley." The voice was low and stirred things that certainly did _not _need to be stirring, given the situation, but she couldn't help the twisting in her guts that urged her to roll her hips closer. "You fight like you fuck."

His amusement was almost tangible. He pulled back enough so she could see his face inches away from her own, lips curved in a satisfied smirk that she recognized from that night. She had the uncomfortable urge to close the distance between them and bite his lips until they bled.

"Malfoy, get off me," she said instead. She would have given a wriggle for emphasis if she might have figured out how to prevent it from becoming a suggestion.

"I'm quite comfortable, Weasley," he said, closing the distance until maybe a hair separated them. "I have to admit, I like you better this way. That other body of yours was too short." He cocked his head to the side, as if considering something. "On second thought, however, that other body had far larger breasts—"

Fuck being accidentally turned on. She was _pissed_.

She tried her best to angle her forehead so that it was the one that slammed into his nose, but a muffled curse and the beginnings of a bruise on the tip of her nose later, she was crouched some distance away from Malfoy, wand outstretched in a warning at his face. His wand was nearly in her eye, his spare hand pressed to his nose almost half-heartedly as thick red blood poured over his white hands. Ginny thought it fitting that she now had visible proof of his guilt. Bloody hands for a bloody conscience.

"I'm starting to tire of this, Ginevra," he said warningly, a musical lilt to his voice that hadn't been there previously. Ginny marked it down for later confrontations—because there certainly would be more, there was no doubt about that—as a sign that he was furious. He was more dangerous this way, if only because he'd prolong his use of _Avada _until he had determined that he had successfully pulled out restitution for his boredom in bloody screams. She knew his type.

"If you'd just fucking listen to me, we wouldn't have to do this!" she exclaimed, narrowing her eyes at him in a glare.

"You've had plenty of opportunities, Weasley. What's holding you back?"

She realized with a mental curse that he was right. She could have just blurted it out to him and been done with it. Actually, in retrospect, this entire plan to hunt down Draco Malfoy was a terrible idea. It lacked foresight and she was surprised he hadn't just killed her as soon as he found her. Merlin knew he could have done it any second that he was behind her, whispering into her ear.

Just what the fuck had she been thinking? She hadn't even planned out what she would tell him. _Hi Malfoy, I fucked you a couple of weeks ago and surprise! I'm pregnant with your bastard Death Eater son._ Had she planned to stay to discuss it or Disapparate away as soon as it left her lips? She didn't even need to tell him. Why did she feel a sense of obligation to him?

_Some leftover sense of honor_, she told herself bitterly. She hadn't thought about it, so her subconscious must have decided to revert back to its pure roots that demanded she tell the father of her unborn child that she _was _pregnant. _Before she . . . what? Kept it? Gave it away? _Aborted_ it?_

The thought gave her chills, so she quickly pushed it to the back of her mind.

"Weasley," Malfoy interrupted coldly. "As amusing as it is to watch you attempt to think, I can think of quite a few more entertaining activities that involve you, me, and your viscera in various states of debauchery and profligacy—"

"I'm pregnant."

She hadn't meant to blurt it out like that. She had vaguely intended to deliver it with a sort of dismissive haughtiness that implied in its tone that _he _was the sole architect of said pregnancy, but the rushed words lacked any sort of elegance or restraint.

Ginny looked up to find Malfoy utterly unperturbed. "Did you hear me?" she asked almost shrilly.

"Of course I heard you, you daft blood traitor, but I fail to see what sort of great importance such a proclamation is supposed to have to me."

Ginny stared at him, dumbfounded.

He seemed to realize that he'd left her speechless, because he sneered in disgust. "What, Weasley? Do you really think that a blood traitor's bastard offspring is mine? I'm sure you love quite well—and by that I mean your 'legs open very easily'—but I highly doubt that there will be any progeny resulting from a quick mediocre lay between you and I."

"Malfoy, I am _pregnant _with _your _fucking spawn," Ginny hissed, pushing herself to her feet so she could stand over him for an almost primal advantage. He slid to his feet barely a heartbeat later, ruining her height advantage by a couple of inches. "You can at least give me enough credit that I would know who my unborn child's father is."

He dropped his head back and _laughed. _So loud that Ginny was sure people would be running around the corner to find out who was making all the noise. Her hand tightened on her wand in a white-knuckle grip, trying to keep Malfoy in her sight and scan the empty London streets for any sign of life, unnerved by his unexpected reaction despite herself. She caught sight of the very faintest tinge of paler blue in the sky, indicating that it was getting early. She'd need to get back to her apartment before full daylight soon.

"That's the funniest thing I've heard in _ages, _Weasley. A blood traitor whore trying to toss off her half-blood baby to _me_, Draco Malfoy, beloved of the Dark Lord himself. And hunting me down in the middle of London, alone, in the middle of the night? You must have a death wish."

Ginny glared at him, furious that he wouldn't believe her and so bone-shatteringly _frightened _that he might be right. The death wish thing she could discount, to an extent: she didn't want to die yet. Not now, at least, with a tiny little life growing inside of her and so many people she needed to help to the afterlife before she went herself. But he was calling her insane. Completely fucking bonkers and madder than a hatter, and she wasn't sure if he was right or wrong.

That scared her more than anything.

"Malfoy, you're the only one I've fucked in the past year."

She kept her words clipped and crude; she didn't want him to know how much he'd shaken her with his all-too-accurate analysis of her actions. And she certainly didn't want him to think that she viewed what they did in any sort of romantic context.

"Such a long dry spell, Weasley?" he asked sympathetically, grey eyes glittering with malice. "Such a shame that you can't shack up with Potter in your little headquarters with everyone constantly hovering."

Ginny felt a brief moment of panic—_Does he know where our headquarters is?_—before she realized he was just making a generalized statement. And then she felt a deeper, more aching pain that started somewhere where she suspected her heart might be and spread in lethargic tendrils: anguish. She only wished that his words about Harry were closer to the truth than reality was.

She forced herself to shrug in nonchalance. "I don't think my sex life is any concern to you, Malfoy, except for the fact that we shagged and now you have a bouncing baby on the way."

His smirking, easy-going expression vanished like sand, leaving in its wake a twisted glare. "That thing in your womb isn't mine. Fuck, I'm starting to think that you're making up the whole pregnancy just to do some reconnaissance or whatever the hell it was you did in Halcyon Days."

_He's more vulgar than he used to be, _Ginny noted absently, momentarily thrown from the here-and-now by the tangential thought. And then his words caught up with her and her scowl deepened.

"Dammit, Malfoy, here," she snapped, quickly pointing her wand down at herself and casting the pregnancy spell again. The sickly green light illuminated her slightly concave stomach and ragged t-shirt. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she was soon going to have a new subject of her nightmares featuring millions and millions of Killing Curses that turn into pregnancy spells. _How horribly ironic._

"Congratulations, Weasley, you're as fertile as your mother." Another dull barb that merely seemed to join the rest. "That doesn't prove anything."

"Then do a gods-damned paternity test, Malfoy, if you're so desperate to prove it's not yours."

His eyebrows crawled up his face in obvious shock at her show of faith, and the smirk that crossed his face was quick to flee. Ginny forced herself to lower her wand when he stepped closer, reaching out his hand in an obvious request.

"I've still got my wand trained on your balls," Ginny said warningly as she slipped her right hand into his.

He gave her a coy grin. "I wouldn't expect it any other way, love."

Quicker than a flash, he had flipped over her palm and used his wand as a blade, parting the skin like water. Ginny suspected by the amount of blood and the dull pain that slowly crept closer to the forefront of her mind that he had given her a far deeper cut that necessary, but she certainly wasn't about to point that out to him and risk getting another slice—_or something worse_—for her troubles.

He mirrored the cut on his own palm, taking a moment to press them together. Despite the fact that no spell had been performed yet, she felt the electric zing of pureblood recognizing pureblood, closing her eyes inadvertently to trace his blood through her veins. She opened her eyes at the same time that Malfoy did, and she tried not to look too affected.

She'd never had a chance to try that phenomena with another pureblood, there being so few among the Order to begin with and her a blood traitor and an undesirable. Now that she had, she realized why just so many Dark spells involved the use of blood: it was a thrill not unlike a shot of adrenaline or a wild new drug.

Malfoy didn't bother asking permission before he crouched slightly, pushing her shirt up and out of the way and pressing his carmine palm to her ivory abdomen. She didn't recognize the words that he murmured, but she didn't expect to. The only paternity test that she knew took a good fortnight to brew, and they didn't have a fortnight. It was only logical that Draco Malfoy would use a Dark magic paternity test.

Ginny then realized with a sickening lurch that he might be doing _anything _to her down there. She didn't know just what the hell type of spell he was performing, so for all she knew, he could be turning her blood into poison or _murdering _her. She tried to pull away, but his hand with the wand grabbed her hip, pinning her in place and preventing escape.

"Malfoy, if you're—"

"Relax, Weasley. It was just a paternity test," he scoffed, removing his hand. Ginny craned her head over his so she could see her stomach, garishly painted with a perfect bloody palm print. It reminded her of some sort of primitive war paint, and she wanted to giggle.

"Well?"

"Patience is a virtue," he preached loftily, rocking back onto his heels at he stared at her stomach with an intensity that made her want to push her shirt back down and hide. She stifled the snort that nearly escaped at his words. Draco Malfoy, talking about virtue? It was laughable, to say the least.

Still staring at her stomach, she noticed a gradually rosy grow that seemed to emanate from the bloody palm print. She stared in disbelief.

"You're not the father?" she asked incredulously. "But how in the _hell _did I get pregnant by someone else if you're the only one I've shagged in years?"

Malfoy didn't reply, standing up and turning around, presenting her with his back. Again there was that strange urge to attack him _now _while he was vulnerable, but she squashed that urge. She needed answers.

"Do the spell again," she demanded. "You must have done it wrong."

"I didn't do it wrong, Weasley," he bit out sharply, stunning her into silence. She recovered her equilibrium quickly.

"Bullshit. There is no way in hell that you aren't the father."

He finally turned back around, an indecipherable expression on his face. She noted the slightly slumped shoulders—a start disparity from his normally impeccable posture—and the way his right hand clenched and unclenched on his wand, and she felt her indignation sink into confusion.

"I _am _the father, Weasley."

Ginny blinked, and then glanced back down at the rosy glow still radiating around the palm print to confirm that she had seen the red light correctly.

"What?"

"I'm the fucking father, Weasley!" he erupted, finally meeting her eyes. She stopped her recoil after she had already stumbled back half a step, eyeing the way his jaw was clenched so tightly that she could see the bulge of muscle.

"Then why the fuck is it red?"

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if her questions caused him the greatest punishment that could be bestowed upon a single man. "It's red because the creators of the spell almost always did _not_want the baby to be theirs. Red for blood; red for bad news; red for babies they did not want or need. Red for Weasley-red hair."

He glanced up at her hair, pulled back into damp bun, and a wide grin wiped away any sort of melancholia that had drenched his thoughts quicker than light. Ginny blinked at the sudden transformation, but was utterly unprepared for his next words.

"Well, have you thought of any names? If it's a girl, I think we should go with Carina or Lyra, and it's a boy, we should go with—hmm. Maybe Serpens if he takes after me, or Phoenix if he takes after you. Oh, I know! Aries would be perfect! The god of war born during the war! You have to appreciate the poetry of that."

Ginny didn't quite know why she was still surprised at this point, but Malfoy was impossible to predict. She half-expected him to clap his hands in glee.

"Malfoy!" she said sharply, cutting off his near celebration. "I'm not even sure if I want to keep it."

The look he gave her was chilling.

"Oh, believe me, my Gin and tonic, you'll keep it." His eyes burned with a heat that wasn't there, words brittle like glass that smashed against Ginny and seemed to slice her to ruby ribbons.

She remembered the gin and tonic. She'd thought she was being clever.

"I'm afraid that's not your decision to make," she told him icily, recovering her poise.

He arched an aristocratic eyebrow as if questioning her ability to do everything he said. "Do you really think I'm going to let some blood traitor carrying my heir go gallivanting around in the in the middle of a war—when it's hardly even a war anymore, you know—on the _losing _side? You have to be mad if you think I'd let you do that. Illegitimate or not, that baby is my heir until I've married and secured a legitimate one, and I'm not going to allow you to jeopardize his or her health for some stupidly misplaced sense of loyalty."

Ginny gaped at him. What did he expect her to do? Submit to being a virtual prisoner for the next nine months before being slaughtered like a barren broodmare as soon as they'd cut the umbilical cord? Not fucking likely.

"And you must be seriously deluded if you're under the impression that I'm going to simply submit to your whims and go gently into that good night."

"Do you really think I'll let you go so easily?" he questioned softly, a stillness creeping over his body that told Ginny more than his words that he was about to strike.

So she struck first.

"No," she replied, and Disapparated.

* * *

A/N: Beta'd by the lovely **fury-shashka** who takes about half a second to beta a chapter. Thank you! Kudos also go to Porsha (**Lovers-Love-Liars-Lie **(with periods instead of dashes)) for kicking my arse back into gear when I was feeling mopey about the direction it was going.

Notes:

-Margaretha Zelle is the real name of the supposed World War I spy Mata Hari.

-Ginny's line of " . . . and go gently into that good night" is a sort of rewording of a line in the poem _Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night _by Dylan Thomas. Sazh in FFXIII also says the line, which I figure I should cite because I've played the game, too.

So! What do you think? Did Draco live up to your expectations? I'm so nervous about characterizing Draco like this, but he was so _fun _to write. Anything you liked especially? Anything surprising? I'm betting most of you expected that bomb, but it was still fun to write.

There are a couple of review replies I haven't gotten out yet because I've been so busy, but my last day of high school is today, so the next chapter definitely won't be so long coming.

Thanks for reading!

Roma


	3. III: Questions don't do the damage

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.

Three

"The questions don't do the damage. Only the answers do."

—Sam Donaldson, _Hold On, Mr. President_

* * *

_"Do you really think I'll let you go so easily?" he questioned softly, a stillness creeping over his body that told Ginny more than his words that he was about to strike._

_So she struck first._

_"No," she replied, and Disapparated._

A dizzying surge later and Ginny was in the damp darkness of her bedroom. It was habit to fire a flare from her wand to disorient any potential enemies lying in wait for her while she searched the first room silently, ears trained for any wayward sounds in the rest of the apartment. She prowled into the living room-cum-kitchen, proceeding with another flare, and then took a step into Luna's room with another bright flash. The tiny toilet (useless with the water cut off) yielded no invaders.

Ginny sagged against the wall, sinking down to the floor with shaky knees. The movement caused a whip of fire to slice across her lower back, reminding her that she had been scraped there when she had been wrestling Malfoy.

_Malfoy_.

Oh, gods, she was certainly insane to have thought . . . nothing. She'd already reached the conclusion that she hadn't been thinking earlier. She felt of bubble of hysteria rise from her abdomen and up through her throat to escape her lips in a cacophony of mad giggles. She stifled them weakly with a single hand, wand pressed loosely to her lips like an icicle. Her giggles were half-choked and almost like sobs, and they repulsed her. As soon as her disgust registered, her chuckles dried up and withered in the back of her throat, trapped behind her dry tongue.

She swallowed, raising a shaky hand to rake through her fringe, and that was when Luna Apparated into the room.

Ginny squinted against the flare, but nothing else was forthcoming. They occasionally made the error of not recognizing each other in those split seconds after the flare and hexes had to be reversed.

Sometimes Ginny wished that Luna would mistake her for a Death Eater and end things permanently.

"Ginny," Luna said softly, ivory wand already falling to her side after she had flicked a few witchlights into the room. The weary blonde then took another look at the redhead, and her protuberant eyes narrowed. "Is there something wrong?"

Ginny briefly entertained the thought of involving Luna. After all, she was almost involved anyway, living in the same hovel that smelled of rotten eggs and wet dog, with peeling wallpaper the same color and texture of soured milk. No. Ginny wouldn't entangle Luna in her mess. The thought would remain just that.

"Nothing more than usual," Ginny replied. It wasn't too hard to think of reasons to have a breakdown in her living room.

"Don't forget to eat tonight, Ginny," Luna warned as she deposited her coat and scarf on the moth-eaten sofa that they never used. "Umgubular Slashkilters like to move into empty stomachs."

"I won't." She didn't need to force a smile to her lips for Luna. It was sitting there, prepared and ready, and it made Ginny idly question if it was odd that her smile refused to drop.

Ginny's stomach then took that moment to make its presence known, and Ginny grimaced, recalling that her last meal had been a can of cold beans the night before. She pushed herself to her feet, glad that the shirt she was wearing was of an indeterminate dark color that would hide the bloodstains—on both her front and her back.

"What happened to your hand?" Luna questioned lightly, staring at Ginny with an intensity that belied her casual question.

Ginny cursed herself for forgetting such an obvious injury. She spared the palm a glance; it was just starting to clot, but she could still tell just by the quantity of blood and the depth of the cut that Malfoy _had _cut deeper than he needed to. _Bastard._

"It's nothing serious," Ginny replied. She gripped her wand and cast _Episkey _before Luna could get a closer look. They all knew the difference between knife cuts and wand cuts by now, and Luna would be able to spot it if she got close enough. "I ran into a Muggle."

Ginny knew what Luna'd assume: that the Muggle had been outside of Fred and George's. And like any of the Order members, none of them wanted to know a thing about where Fred and George were located, or what they did, or anything besides the information that the twins still steadily provided through Ginny.

"Oh," Luna said, a rare look of disgust on her face. "It's rotten what Tom and the Death Eaters have done to the Muggles."

Ginny nodded in agreement. The Muggles' prime minister, Carleton Yaxley, wasn't exactly doing them any favors. From what limited news they received, she knew that the Muggle system of law had been demolished as Yaxley slowly but surely decimated the infrastructure of the entire country. After that was done, she knew he'd build it up again under the orders of Voldemort—but this time, completely subservient to their wizard counterparts.

"We don't even have any reliable sources that say that Tom is still alive," Ginny reminded, stalking over to the kitchen portion and withdrawing an appetizing can of baked beans that probably predated the Great War with Grindelwald. "For all we know, there could be a puppet master like Lucius Malfoy pulling the strings behind the specter of Tom."

The names Voldemort, You-Know-Who, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had Taboos cast on them in what must have been the second month after Dumbledore's death. Most people called him the Dark Lord, as he claimed his title to be, but the Order and other figures adverse to the new government called him Tom or another name entirely. Harry had shared that knowledge with the ones who hadn't known back when he was still fighting (and she wasn't just referring to the physical fight, either).

Luna gave a delicate shudder, which made her vines of scraggly hair ripple. "Merlin, I hope not."

Ginny wondered if it might be true. That her baby's grandfather was the one who regularly ordered her demise. Well, not _her _personal demise, but the Order as a whole.

On the other hand, the thought of personal headhunters scouring the streets for her made Ginny smile into her beans. In other circumstances, Lucius would be her father-in-law.

"I'm going to head to bed," Luna announced, already halfway across the room. "Just remember that I'm here."

Ginny watched the blonde make her way into her room, her limp barely discernible, and shut the door firmly behind her. Ginny gazed at the door thoughtfully. Ginny knew that Luna suspected her of hiding something, but, as always, the blonde was content to passively observe. Luna's last comment had been to let Ginny know that if she ever did want to tell her what was going on then she'd be willing to listen.

Lucky for Luna, Ginny didn't plan on ever telling her.

Ginny waited until Luna finished moving about in her room before she tossed her empty bean can into the trash bin and slipped into her own room. She summoned a few witchlights to guide her, although they were more of a formality than anything. She could navigate her room with ease even if the lights were off.

There wasn't much to navigate around in the first place: a thin mattress on the ground, dark blue sheets mussed and smelling of unwashed Ginny even from across the room. In the right hand corner were her two piles of clothes: the relatively clean and the irreparably dirty. The small window on the far wall showed a sweeping view of a red brick wall. To the immediate left of the door (and finishing off the room) was her desk.

It was littered with scraps of paper, some from the _Daily Prophet _and others from worldly newspapers such as the American _Wizard's Herald _and the French _Sorcières, _as well as various pictures, trinkets, and assorted pens. On the wall in front of the desk was a small, unassuming black and white photo of a solemn-looking boy of about seventeen.

The photo itself was ragged and appeared like it'd been crumpled and uncrumpled and then maybe stepped on a few times for good measure. Regardless, Ginny had gone through much trouble to obtain such a photo, and she didn't plan on letting anything happen to it until she slaughtered the "boy" in it. And then she would burn the photo of Tom Riddle and scatter the ashes over the ruins of Hogwarts.

Ginny dropped her jacket and shoes on the floor, tossing her trousers into the relatively clean pile. She left her shirt on, mindful of her wounds and padded out of her room to the toilet. She did her business and transfigured the liquid into a harmless pile of shredded paper which she'd take out with the trash the following morning.

She picked up the square of glass propped against the wall that they used as a mirror and held it angled so she could see her midsection. Malfoy's red handprint garishly contrasted against her pale skin and could only have been a more explicit badge of shame if it were carved into her skin. The blood had dried but little of it had flaked off.

Ginny drew her wand and murmured, "_Aguamenti,_" directing the jet of water at the crimson palm.

The water slicked over it as if it was part of her skin.

A frown creased her brow as she lifted her shirt up with her elbow and used her hand to rub at the bloodstain. It wouldn't come off.

Panicked, Ginny started to scrub violently at the carmine mark until she could feel the sting of her nails raking across her tender belly. She couldn't see any wounds beyond the bloody hand that had mixed with the water to make it slightly damp.

"_Scourgify,_" she said, watching as the spell did nothing more than clean the dirt from the handprint. _Tergeo _had even less of an impact, and neither did any of the other spells she remembered from her mother's copy of _101 Helpful Spells for the Household Witch_. She tried Vanishing the blood, even Transfiguring it, but it still remained the same.

_Fuck_, she thought to herself. _Fuck, fuck, fuck. _Malfoy must have lied when he'd told her it was just a paternity spell. It annoyed Ginny that she hadn't even considered he might lie to her. She knew Dark spells, but she'd never heard of this one. It was so unsettling to think that Malfoy was able to leave a permanent mark on her, a figurative scarlet letter. She wondered if others would see it and instinctively know that it was a mark of her sin.

The edge of panic that she had managed to stave off since Malfoy touched her had now surged back with vicious force. It felt as if the cold beans had turned to stone in her stomach: a pit of unease and fear that made her hysterically question if he'd implanted a Muggle bomb into her stomach with that brief contact. She absently wondered if she'd have any warning before that bloody palm print turned her into a spray of pink mist, or if it'd happen so suddenly that she wouldn't even feel it. Or maybe it was worse, and he'd somehow turned her into a living, breathing tracking device that could lead the Death Eaters straight to the Order's last stronghold to slaughter them like lambs at spring culling.

She took in a shaking breath and held it for a moment, and when she released it, she knew what she'd have to do. She'd have tell Luna that she needed a day to herself—tomorrow—and Luna would communicate that with the Trio. Her team could survive a night without her. They'd assume that she was out on an errand for Fred and George. Then during her personal day, she'd pay a visit to a certain someone who brokered information.

For now, though, Ginny would just hunt for sleep.

* * *

The house Ginny Apparated outside of was one of those buildings that one could expect to see in any city or countryside in England, unchanging despite the differing cultures. It was unassuming and common and if she hadn't been specifically heading towards it, Ginny's eye would have naturally passed over the house as if it were part of the scenery.

The glimmer of dusk still traced the western horizon with tangerine- and rose-colored fingers, bleeding into a light blue that darkened to an azure—the color of irises—before settling into indigo. Scattered across the sky were sparkling specks of crystal that Ginny took a moment to mentally map before hurrying to the door of the grey-colored building.

She always felt as if she were under scrutiny when she visited this house, so she self-consciously scraped her trainers on the mat provided to the right of the door. She pushed a lock of hair that had fallen free from her braid behind her ear and rubbed at her eyes to inject some life into them.

Ginny pushed the little button to the left of the door and waited. It opened almost immediately to reveal a solid wall of smoke. The timer had been started; she'd have thirty seconds to state her name and purpose before that cloud of smoke (only _one_ of the house's numerous defenses) would sweep out and claw its way down her throat until she suffocated.

"Ginevra Weasley for information," she said quickly. A tendril of smoke snaked out for confirmation, and she held her palm out—the one that hadn't been sliced by Malfoy the night before—to let the smoke sense that she was who she said she was.

A few more seconds passed before the smoke faded away, revealing a well-kept interior decorated in jewel tones that managed to remain on the tasteful side of ostentatious. Ginny stepped inside, closing the door behind her as a courtesy, and headed to the back of the building where a spiral staircase would lead her to who she wanted to see.

"Hurry on up," a female voice called down crankily as Ginny turned the corner into the back room. "I haven't got all night."

Ginny resumed her normal speed (if a bit slower than necessary), making it up the stairs to her destination, the master bedroom.

"Look who it is," drawled the voice as Ginny stepped inside.

The owner of the voice stood at the back of the room, wearing rich plum-colored robes that complemented the indigo highlights in her raven-colored hair. She was fiddling with something at one of the many benches that filled the room in lieu of a bed.

Ginny ignored the greeting, giving the room a cursory glance before focusing on the woman. All of the wooden workbenches were chipped and bare. Numerous cabinets stood on the far side of the room, obscuring the windows (and no doubt magically padlocked), which told any visitors that all the important things were locked away from prying eyes.

"I need some information."

"Who doesn't in today's world?" the woman questioned rhetorically as she turned around, wiping her hands on an ivory handkerchief. "All that matters is how much you're willing to pay for it."

Pansy Parkinson had come a long way from Hogwarts. She had gained enough weight now to be considered curvy, but it suited her short frame better than the waif-like thinness she had sported in her school years. Her ebony hair was pinned back, and her features had balanced themselves out. No one would dare to call her ugly now, unless he was referring to her personality, but few who saw her even cared to note her physical appearance. Anyone who came to Pansy Parkinson wanted information.

"It depends on the price you set," Ginny said. She knew better than to reveal that she'd do anything for this information, because that would only prompt Pansy, filled with ruthless acumen, to hike her prices.

"I need you to tell me everything about this," she continued, raising her shirt to reveal the still-present bloody palm print. Ginny stared intently at Pansy's face to see if she'd reveal that she knew what the mark was, but Pansy was too skilled. She didn't have any tells.

Pansy examined the mark, and, after a long pause, she raised her violet eyes to meet Ginny's amber ones. "It'll cost you," Pansy warned.

"How much?" Ginny was eager to get straight to the payment part, especially since she knew that Pansy's stalling was only her trying to determine how much this information was worth to Ginny.

"Three memories," she said coolly. There was a shrewdness in her violet eyes—something that allowed her to survive all these years without support.

Evidently Pansy came to the conclusion that she'd get exactly what she asked for, because her first offer was unheard of. Pansy had no need for Galleons. She dealt in the insubstantial: dreams, oaths, and memories. Ginny knew from stories that you had to watch what you exchanged for information, because sometimes what she asked for was what a client had paid her to obtain. She was neither a Death Eater nor a member of the Order; she operated on both sides and profited from the continued conflict.

Ginny had never liked Pansy that much to begin with, but her wartime profiteering made that dislike sink into a loathing almost akin to hate. Ginny also had to admit that she wasn't morally insulted by Pansy's exploits, but envious—envious that she hadn't thought of the idea first.

"One, and I let you pick which one it is," Ginny bargained.

Pansy gave it a second of thought before nodding in agreement. "Done. I know which memory I want."

Ginny was slightly taken aback that Pansy would know her life well enough to already have a particular memory staked out, but she decided to go with it anyway. Questions outside of deals weren't exchanged in this house.

"What?"

"Your first meeting with Tom Riddle."

Ginny should have seen this coming. Anyone who was at all keen on defeating Voldemort (and that particular camp probably contained three-quarters of the world's population) would find any look into his psyche to be an asset, even if it was through the lens of an eleven-year-old girl's mind. It was revealing enough to discover that his first name was Tom Riddle, and from there one could possibly investigate his entire mortal history and potentially discover a hidden weakness.

Ginny personally wasn't much into psychoanalysis. She was more of the fire spells first, ask questions later type. So, to her, anyone who was against Voldemort was an ally in her book, and she quickly decided that the exchange would be a fair one. Hell, it was almost a win-win situation.

"Agreed," Ginny said, watching as Pansy smiled smugly as she nodded in satisfaction.

"Good. Well, I'll just make this quick, then," Pansy said, scanning the worktables until she spotted what she was looking for.

She walked over to a seemingly innocuous workbench on the left side of the room and crouched down to the ground, withdrawing a tiny corked bottle from underneath.

"Use this to hold the memory, and I'll go grab a book to help with your stomach problem."

Ginny wildly thought for a second that Pansy was euphemistically referring to her pregnancy before it dawned on her that the reason she was here in the first place had nothing to do with her erstwhile sexual encounters—at least as far as Pansy was to know, it didn't.

Ginny waited until Pansy left the room before she began to recall the memory with a fervor she seldom used. It'd been a while since she'd last remembered this particular nightmare; lately, when she slept, her dreams were more of the malignant kind. Such benign nightmares were almost a godsend when they struck.

But this one . . . this one had haunted her for years before she'd gotten over it. And even then, it hadn't taken long for it to be replaced with something far worse.

_She'd noticed the slim volume tumble out of her Transfiguration textbook. She hadn't paid too much attention to it her first night because she was too worn out from all the food ingested and the amazement at Hogwarts. This was her first weekend of the school year, however, and she she'd already been abandoned by Ron and Hermione and _Harry_ . . ._

_She sniffed to herself as she pulled out the small book, ignoring the way her eyes had decided to drip like a leaky faucet. It was a plain book of black leather, and it looked a bit shabby. The first page had the name "T. M. Riddle" written on it in smudged ink, but the rest of the pages were blank. On the back of the book was the printed name of a variety store on Vauxhall Road, London._

_Intrigued, Ginny scrambled for a quill. She'd never been able to afford a diary before, and she guessed that her parents must have slipped it in with her school books as a going-away present. Smiling brightly, she wrote out in painstakingly neat letters, _Hello, diary.

_She was still thinking of what to write when the words faded away to be replaced with new words in an entirely different handwriting: _Hello there.

_Ginny stared at the letters and watched them fade away. She then looked down at the quill clutched in her hand, which was shaking violently._

_She hadn't written that._

Ginny opened her eyes and carefully guided her wand from her temple, watching the silvery thread of the memory cling to the wood as it left her mind. She slipped it into the tiny bottle that Pansy had given her and put the stopper in, mentally doing the usual post-memory-removal habit of running through the memory again. Now it felt greyer, almost as if it'd been a faint dream instead of a memory. She knew it'd fade even more with time.

Pansy had returned and was now flipping through a tiny green book, resting a hip against a workbench. Each time she turned a page, dust shuddered off it and floated downwards. Ginny fancied she saw bits of the pages crumble away as well. It was definitely an old book.

Ginny tried focusing on the title on the cover, but her eyes just didn't seem to want to comprehend the letters that swam from discernible to indiscernible symbols. She assumed that Pansy had charmed it so it was only coherent to herself, but knowing that only made the naturally paranoid part of Ginny grit its teeth in frustration.

What if Pansy knowingly gave her the wrong information? What if she tried to sabotage her? What if she was on Malfoy's side? They were irrational concerns, but concerns nonetheless simply because she was so accustomed to being wary. Even if it was a fair exchange and she knew that Pansy would never stiff her (unless she had something greater to be gained by doing so), Ginny was still leery.

"Ah, here it is," Pansy said, pushing off the bench and walking closer to Ginny. "Lift up your shirt so I can get a better look at it."

Ginny placed her bottled memory on the empty workbench in front of her and obliging lifted her shirt, feeling as if she was exposing a chink in her armor. She didn't like showing weaknesses, and something primal within her rebelled against revealing her vulnerable stomach with those vital organs only millimeters away from the surface, exposed to anyone who wished to rip them out.

Pansy merely looked at the carmine print, instead of causing irreparable damage to Ginny's internal organs. She let out a thoughtful "Hmmm" while she consulted the book. She then gave a tentative poke with her wand—making a big show of pulling it out of her pocket so that she wouldn't alarm the redhead with sudden movement—and made another noncommittal sound when a yellow light glowed from the tip of her wand.

Pansy finally spoke. "Weasley, what do you know about the Mark of Cain?"

Ginny blinked. It sounded utterly unfamiliar. "Next to nothing. Is that what this is?"

Pansy nodded grimly. "Here, one minute. Let me go grab another book so you can read something out of it." She disappeared out of the room, taking the memory and the thin chartreuse book with her.

Ginny didn't have to wait long, thankfully, because she was already raking her mind for anything she'd heard on the Mark of Cain. She obviously didn't remember anything because she'd never heard of it, but it didn't stop her from creating plausible (and implausible) possibilities. None of them sounded like anything she wanted on her skin, so she hoped that what Pansy would tell her would be marginally better.

Pansy returned with a heavier-looking book that appeared a little worn but positively new in comparison to the small green book she still held. She handed it to Ginny. "Here, open it up to Genesis, chapter four."

Ginny took the book, noting its weight and the leaf-thin pages that it consisted of. It was made of thick brown leather, and written in gold leaf on the front were the words _Holy Bible. _This, at least, sparked her memory.

"Isn't this a Muggle book?"

Pansy waved her hand dismissively. "It doesn't matter if it's Muggle or not. Now listen. The gist of that particular story is that two brothers make an offering to their God, and God accepts the younger's offering and rejects the elder's. So in an attempt to appease his God, the elder brother kills the younger." Pansy noted Ginny's upraised eyebrow and laughed shortly. "Barbaric, aren't they? Now read lines thirteen through fifteen."

Ginny flipped through the pages until she made it to the appropriate section and gave another suspicious glance towards Pansy before reading the tiny in print.

_13 And Cain said unto the Lord, My punishment is greater than I can bear. 14 Behold, thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the earth; and from thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth; and it shall come to pass, that every one that findeth me shall slay me. 15 And the Lord said unto him, Therefore whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold. And the Lord set a mark upon Cain, lest any finding him should kill him._

Ginny reread the last line once, and then again, her eyes refusing to leave the page until some level of comprehension registered. Malfoy had set the Mark of Cain upon her to what? Ensure that whoever killed her would be torturously slaughtered in return? The sentiment might have been sweet if it didn't disturb her so much.

Not to mention the fact that she didn't exactly like how permanent it sounded.

"So this Mark essentially ensures that whoever kills me gets their just return amplified by seven?"

Pansy snorted. Well, it was the ladylike sharp passing of air through her nostrils that counted as snorting for her. "Hardly. The Muggles got it wrong, as per usual. I just wanted you to read it because it gave a basis for the myth behind it, since the Mark of Cain is incredibly rare. I'm actually quite astonished to come across it. Not many Dark wizards or witches know of its existence, and I'm almost certain this book," she said as she lifted the small green tome for emphasis, "is one of the only copies. The others can probably be found in a couple of purebloods' libraries."

Ginny ignored the subtle probing that Pansy was attempting. She was hoping that Ginny would confirm that it was a pureblood wizard or witch—or better yet, just tell her who Marked her—and Ginny wasn't about to be as stupid as to give Pansy Parkinson valuable information like that. If anyone even knew that she and Draco Malfoy associated with one another, even if it wasn't in a remotely friendly fashion . . . well, Ginny would have more people after her than usual.

"Then what does this Mark actually do?"

"It varies," Pansy answered with a shrug. "The main component of the spell is that it's linked to the detection of harm upon the Marked. But a multitude of other spells can be woven into the structure of the spell, depending upon the ability of the caster."

"So are you basically telling me that you have no fucking idea just what this Mark on my stomach does beyond the fact that it _might _be able to detect when I'm hurt?" Ginny's voice had lowered until it as barely above a whisper. Her hand unconsciously clenched around her wand.

It was difficult to contain the rage that bubbled through her veins like a corrosive, effervescent champagne, but she managed. She reminded herself that hurting Pansy would only hinder any future dealings with the brunette.

"Don't get arse sore with me," Pansy reminded her dangerously, well aware of the fact that Ginny was inches away from flying off her rocker. "I wasn't the one who managed to get herself Marked. The best way to determine just what your spell consists of is to ask the one who cast it. I'd be able to give you a better idea of what the spell might contain if I knew who cast—"

"_No_," Ginny said firmly, pocketing her wand. "And if you don't have any insightful information to add, then I'll—"

"Get out of my house before I allow Mephistopheles to swallow your lungs."

Almost on cue, the giant cloud of smoke materialized behind Pansy, and Ginny didn't need any extra urging. She Disapparated before that cloud of smoke that Pansy had so lovingly named decided to absorb her.

* * *

"Ginny, where have you been?"

The question came as soon as she'd stepped into the kitchen at headquarters, and it startled her. Jerking her head up, she narrowed her eyes suspiciously, trying to determine Hermione's purpose in questioning her. It was standard by now for them to pretend that she wasn't working for Fred and George. Ignorance was bliss, or as close to it as they were going to get to it. That Hermione was asking Ginny a question about where she'd been was unusual enough to warrant dubiety.

"Out," she answered shortly, stopping at the foot of the table. "Is there any reason in particular why you wished to know?"

Ron and Hermione were in their usual positions, side-by-side at the head of the table. Luna was standing to the right of the table, her thin hands wrapped like claws around each other. Her gaze bored into something on the table, and Ginny spared it a glance before looking away. The rectangles of thick black paper held no interest for her when there were more important things demanding her attention.

Harry, however, was standing over the empty fireplace, his forearm resting on the mantle as he gazed down at the ashes. It was impossible to see his face, and even if she had been able to, Ginny doubted she could decipher his expression in the dim lighting

"Ginny, is there anything you want to tell us?" Harry asked from the fireplace.

Ginny thought it fitting that he was avoiding her gaze like he avoided any sort of direct confrontation in the war.

"No, there isn't. What is this about?"

"Your team captured Thorfinn Rowle and two other Death Eaters tonight," Hermione answered for Harry.

The brunette's eyes narrowed on Ginny's face in the hopes of spotting any sort of revealing indication that the name meant something to her. Ginny was as practiced as Pansy, however, at keeping her emotions under lock and key and six feet of poured concrete.

They could have brought him up for a multitude of reasons, but Ginny's panicking subconscious instantly latched onto the only meeting she'd ever had with the Death Eater.

_From the outside, Halcyon Days didn't look terribly impressive—merely another crumbling building amidst a crumbling city—but Ginny could feel the heavy pulse of a bass beating like an insistent tattoo against her chest, and the curious sensation of compressed magic humming against her skin like a familiar blanket laced with razors. She knew that this was no ordinary building._

_Ginny resisted the urge to go for the wand that she didn't have. It would have been more comforting to know that she was protected, but Fred and George had been adamant: Muggles didn't have the need for a wand, so why would the sable-haired Muggle Margaretha Zelle have one? She'd reluctantly agreed that she'd have to go without her wand to keep up her masquerade, but she'd spent the last week practicing her wandless magic so she wouldn't be completely defenseless._

_Taking a steadying breath, Ginny ran a hand through her cropped hair, unnerved by its feathery lightness. She almost thought her head would float into the clouds without her thick scarlet mane weighing it down. Her fingers flitted across the edge of her clothing, adjusting here and there to ensure the most amount of skin was bared. The Muggle body that George had provided for her Polyjuicing usage was about as far from her usual lithe self as possible, and she was hoping that she wouldn't forget she had relocated a few inches of her height to her chest._

_Self-perusal complete, Ginny strode out of the dark side street, sauntering in her towering heels towards the dimly lit entrance of Halcyon Days. As she got closer she felt her heart flutter nervously when she recognized each of the guards. They were low ranking Death Eaters, but they were still Death Eaters._

"'_Ello, lovely," the heavyset Death Eater on the left, Abraham Jugson, leered at her. Ginny swallowed the bile in her throat and smiled invitingly._

"_Good evening." Ginny was prepared for the husky voice that skipped off her lips instead of her normal one, but it was still unsettling. Effortlessly bringing a smirk to her lips, she tossed her dark hair back, baring the ebony tattoo on her left cheekbone. She watched their greedy little eyes alight on the small design and mentally congratulated George for picking such a suitable body._

_Her smugness dried like water, however, when she realized that whoever's body she was borrowing was most likely dead._

"_Who's your sponsor, darlin'?" Thorfinn Rowle, the whippet-thin Death Eater on the right, gave her a look with eyes that conveyed his obvious hope that she didn't have one._

"_Draco Malfoy," she said casually, and nearly laughed at the transformation on their faces if she hadn't been feeling the exact same._

"_Your name?" Rowle shot back quickly, obviously recovering better than Jugson, who still stared as if she'd introduced herself as Shiva to bring the apocalypse._

"_Margaretha Zelle," Ginny answered throatily._

_Rowle arched his eyebrows, giving her another once over, before opening the door for her. Heavy noise—she wouldn't go so far as to call it music—poured out in a wave that railed against her. She moved past them elegantly, refusing to falter even at Rowle's parting remark._

"_Tell Malfoy that when he's done with you, I want the pieces."_

Ginny shook herself from her reverie and forced herself to reply, trying not to show how unsettled she was in the wake of the memory.

"Rowle? Why mention him? He's lower tier, isn't he?" It wasn't hard to use a casual tone.

"We found these on the Death Eaters," Luna interrupted serenely, her voice a bleak and calm respite from the low, heated tones of everyone else in the room.

Ginny used it as a balm to soothe her instincts that were screaming _THEY KNOW THEY KNOW THEY KNOW_ and walked calmly to Luna's side of the table, reaching for a small rectangle of black paper. As soon as she touched it, curling silver letters wrote themselves across the paper. By sheer force of will alone, Ginny managed to hold onto it, fighting the urge to drop the parchment after the irrational jolt of fear rocketed through her—a side effect of her earlier recollection of Tom and the diary.

She read the gilded letters as they appeared.

_Mr. and Mrs. Lucius Incitatus Malfoy  
request the pleasure of  
Ginevra Molly Weasley's company  
for afternoon tea,  
Sunday, the fifth of November,  
at three o'clock in the afternoon,  
Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire_

"What does it say, Ginny?" Hermione's flat voice broke the silence.

Ginny looked up slowly. "It's an invite to tea."

"An invite to tea," Harry echoed hollowly.

"That's interesting," Luna said thoughtfully, cocking her head to the side. "When anyone else picked a letter up, it merely said, 'Please take to Ginevra Weasley.'"

There was a heavy silence as Ginny stared down at the invite, flabbergasted at the gall of the Malfoys. She wondered just what in the hell they wanted to discuss with her—if that was even the purpose of the event—at _tea_. And no doubt a formal tea, to boot.

An image flitted through her mind—mercifully a mere imagination instead of a memory—of Ginny wearing lily-white gloves over her dirty fingers and a large diamond clip nestled in the ropes of her greasy hair, pristine porcelain teacup held with her pinky outstretched. "Formal tea" and "Ginevra Weasley" did not even belong in the same _conversation_.

"Is there anything you want to tell us?" Harry repeated, finally turning away from his perusal of the fireplace and pinning Ginny with a pair of dull, swamp-colored eyes.

"No."

"Ginny, you know that we won't have a choice if the implications of this invitation are true." Hermione's voice had gained strength, and there was a glimmer of the brilliant commander she once was. It was horrifying to see the old Hermione peeking out of this broken shell of a girl. "If you are associating with Death Eaters like the Malfoys, you'll quickly learn the same lesson that Percy did: blood has no cachet amongst traitors."

"Are you asking me to leave?" Ginny's voice was more empty and disquieting than a pre-dug grave.

Harry's blank stare bored into her with wordless condemnation while Hermione clenched her jaw.

"Ginny, I don't want to. But you know that to even risk the chance that you might . . . " She trailed off, leaving the words unspoken.

"I can honestly tell you that I have no idea what this invitation is about," Ginny said lowly. The lie danced off her lips as if it'd been rehearsed. "I'm betting that it's merely an elaborate way to stir dissension. You have to trust me."

Luna moved closer. "We do trust you, Ginny."

"Sometimes it's just so hard to tell whose side you're really on," Hermione added, her stoic countenance softening in defeat, shoulders slumped.

Ginny stared at Hermione, feeling emptier than she'd been in a while.

"Some days I don't really know that myself."

* * *

A/N: This took far longer to post than I had intended, and I'm still not fully satisfied with the result. Incredible amounts of kudos go to Lia (**Incognito**) for being my beta and just all around awesome. (Also: I think it's kind of funny I've gone through three betas in three chapters. fury (who will be the primary beta) is out for the summer, so I'm using Lia.) This chapter is the result of_five _rounds of edits between the both of us. That is three more than I usually do.

Notes:

-_101 Helpful Spells for the Household Witch _isn't a real book (even in the HP-verse).

-The appearance details about Riddle's diary are drawn almost verbatim from _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_. In the hardback, you can find it on page 231.

-The Bible I used is the King James Version. It's the one I got as a baby.

-Yaxley and Jugson's first names are mine, as is Lucius' middle name.

-The line "to slaughter them like lambs at spring culling" is a line from Lia's _Mea Culpa, _a great little oneshot if you love Blaise like I do. She suggested that I use it.

Some of you lovelies may not have review replies yet (which I will be doing tonight!) but don't let that stop you from telling me how much you want me to write the next chapter (which will no doubt be more engaging than this one!).

Roma


	4. IV: The wise learn many things

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.

Four

"Yet, certainly, the wise learn many things from their enemies."

—Aristophanes, _Birds_

* * *

Ginny Apparated into a copse of trees just outside of Wiltshire. The afternoon air was thick with fog, and as if she needed any further reason to dislike the situation she was prancing into (much like a newborn foal), the skies had begun to mist. Within minutes, Ginny's greasy red hair was plastered to her head, and she was glad that the hair tie had lasted as long as it had.

Her hand began to drift to the pocket above her left breast, but she stopped herself with a scowl. In her pocket was the ebony square of paper that had summoned her here, a redheaded house elf for their whims, in the middle of the day. Even the weak sunshine that filtered through the trees and the blanket of grey was almost too much for her amber eyes, accustomed to the comfort of darkness.

It was enough to bring half a scowl to her face, but that soon faded to something more troubled. What wild flight of fancy had compelled her to come here? She knew she wasn't Imperius'd—the feeling of that particular Unforgiveable was almost as familiar as the Cruciatus—so she had no logical reason to be there.

Was it her innate lunacy that had slipped forward more and more often since Malfoy had left his mark (both physical and mental)? Or was it (she was loathe to think it) such a careless disregard for her own safety—a blasé death wish of grinning, pitted teeth—that wished her here?

Ginny wasn't sure which she feared more.

But she'd already made her decision—a decision made the instant that silvery script had unfurled at her touch. It was a dare more powerful and more dangerous than she'd ever been challenged with. And that was what this was: a challenge. More accurately, it was a threat—a threat disguised as a challenge disguised as an innocent gesture of tea from two not-so-innocent people who obviously wished her dead.

And she had accepted like the blind fool she was.

Ginny didn't doubt that they had known the second she'd Apparated into the town. She didn't know how far the Malfoy lands stretched, but she knew they weren't limited to a plot of land large enough for the Manor.

Brushing a wet lock of hair off her forehead, Ginny took a steadying breath. She held it a heart beat longer than usual, and then exhaled.

On the exhale, she felt _all _of her mental shields lock into place, more secure than any safe or bunker could hope to be. These were the ones she only held on incalculably dangerous missions. They were too taxing to hold for any number of time, but she knew there wasn't any situation more deserving than this.

It was a quick, brisk walk to the wrought iron gates that preluded the charcoal monstrosity that dominated the skyline. She'd been able to see its spindly spires several minutes before she'd caught sight of the mansion proper, surrounded by hedges so foreboding they put the ones of the infamous Triwizard Tournament to shame. The manor itself seemed almost ephemeral: each time she tried to get a solid look upon it, it changed, like a giant snake shifting its coils so the difference—if there was one—was invisible.

Ginny briefly considered blasting her way through the gates, her wand tightly grasped, but as soon as she got within two meters of it, they swung open silently. Even though she knew it was automatic, she checked to ensure that there was nobody nearby before walking forward. As soon as she got far enough past the gates to give them room to close, they slammed shut with a finality that made Ginny pause.

Uneasily, she stalked up the drive, hugging the left side of the hedges that flanked her on either side like a row of leafy, somber soldiers. It reminded her more a graveyard than anything, and she thought the comparison fitting. As she got closer to the manor, it started to take on a more definitive shape. It was still the monochromatic grey she saw in the distance, but she could see a definitive Norman influence in the ancient stones.

The difference between all other Norman architecture she'd seen and Malfoy Manor was that whoever had crafted this behemoth had the goal to make the Manor an inanimate representation of a Dementor. If Ginny had held any positive thoughts, they surely would have been leeched away as she edged closer to the building.

The drive ended with a granite staircase leading up to the enormous front door, smaller staircases on either side of the main one that circled twin statues of sphinxes. She considered checking the rest of the yard that had been revealed by the end of the hedges, but she figured she was under surveillance anyway, so it wouldn't matter too much. She walked up the left staircase, half-facing the expansive yard, and made her way to the door.

It was large and a tenebrous ebony—definitely larger than necessary—and had an ornate bronze knocker on it and no handle. She figured it was spelled to open when necessary, but was reluctantly to touch anything that belonged to the Malfoys. The knocker itself looked like it was a small goblin head, but maybe a bit more humanoid than the goblins she was accustomed to seeing. The ring was hanging by its lower canines.

Instead of using her hand to move the ring, she waved her wand, the words running through her head to accompany the spell, and the knocker lifted and dropped several times, echoing like the dull thump of a funeral dirge.

And then the eyes on the knocker snapped open.

Ginny was used to inanimate objects suddenly becoming animate, so she had halfway expected something like this. But in case it was a last-resort security measure, she kept her wand trained on it.

"A Weasley, eh?" it croaked.

The voice sounded as if a pure baritone had been splintered and shards of steel had been shoved between the cracks, creating a noise that oscillated between exceedingly pleasant and gratingly painful.

"Last Weasley I saw pass through here was lacking everything but its skin."

She hoped that the Weasley it referred to had been a long-dead ancestor but knew it was probably someone in her own family. She had a brief flash of seeing her mother's skin hanging on display above a long dining table, immortalized in pristine condition and still dripping with blood.

She shook the image away with slight irritation. She knew her mothered hadn't been skinned: she'd been skewered. And Ginny's increasingly splintered thoughts would only serve as a distraction she did not need.

"Well, go in then," the knocker said impatiently as the door swung open. "As to why the mistress seeks an audience with a blood-traitor like you I have no idea." Its voice seemed to convey an indifferent shrug. "Take a right, a left, and then two rights and you'll be there."

"There" Ginny compulsively hoped wasn't the dining room. As soon as she stepped inside the foyer, the door shut just as resolutely as the gate had. The décor was something she had expected from Malfoy Manor: dark, macabre, and strangely elegant. The carpet beneath her feet was the color of blood, and the walls were painted the color of slate. A tapestry depicting some bloody battle hung on the wall to the right, but the focal point of the entry way was a statue of a naked man directly in front of her, frozen in a moment of sheer terror.

Ginny stepped closer, an uncomfortable sense of recognition niggling at the back of her mind. The name flitted through like a whisper: Blaise Zabini.

What was a known Death Eater like Blaise Zabini doing _Duro_'d in the entryway of Malfoy Manor?

It was a question she knew wouldn't be answered. She gave one last glance at the man locked in time and then walked out of the room, taking the directions the knocker gave her. The hallway was of a similar color scheme—this time charcoal grey and silver—and every couple of meters there was some priceless piece of artwork like a porcelain vase or a painting that she occasionally recognized as one that had disappeared decades previously.

Dim witchlights clustered in intervals on the ceiling, casting a sickly light that created shadows and tempted Ginny's mind to deception, making her see things that weren't here.

_One could go mad here. _

The hallway in front of her was a drastic change in style from the previous three. It was all pink marble, from the ceiling to the floor, and interspersed every couple of meters were ivory columns reminiscent of ancient Greece. The end of the hallway opened up into a bright room, and from this distance Ginny could see a chair's back and not much else.

She knew that whoever awaited her—Lucius or Narcissa, though she was betting on only Narcissa because of what the knocker had said—would probably be able to hear her, so she took extra care to continue forward on the balls of her feet.

As she got closer, it became obvious that whoever was waiting for her was sitting in the chair that faced away from her. Wand still grasped tightly in her hand, she slowly eased into the room, ears pricked for any sound.

"It's nice of you to arrive so promptly, Miss Weasley," came the faux-polite voice of Narcissa Malfoy.

Ginny, who had soundlessly crept into the room, froze. She had thought her arrival into the sitting room had gone unnoticed.

"Yes, you paranoid girl, I knew you were there. I am not the mistress of this house for nothing." Narcissa's clear, unbroken tone, though redolent of operatic sopranos, was steeped in mockery and marred by a distinct sneer that was evident even in her voice.

Tucking her wand up her sleeve, Ginny stepped just far enough around the large winged back chair for the blonde Malfoy to see her.

Ginny had known that she was late. Hell, she had deliberately waited until the hand on her watch pointed at "dreadfully late" before even thinking about Apparating to Wiltshire. Narcissa obviously hadn't missed her delayed arrival, and Ginny knew it'd be only one of the many power games she'd have to participate in that day.

"Take a seat, dear," Narcissa told her politely, waving to a cream colored loveseat.

Ginny complied, gingerly taking a seat on the edge of the divan, feeling as if she'd instantly sullied it. The room itself, as she'd seen from a distance, wasn't something she would have expected to see in the manor that had hosted the most prominent dark wizards and witches of this age. Instead of inky walls and emerald furniture, as the rest of the manor had been (barring that last hallway), the palate of the room consisted of rich cream and pale viridian.

The furniture—one green wing-backed chair, occupied by Narcissa, the pale loveseat occupied by Ginny, a sofa that matched the loveseat and a plush armchair that was coupled with Narcissa's chair—were arranged in a rough circle around a pale oak coffee table. Elegant rugs of mild coloring were scattered across the tiled floor to provide some protection from the cool marble that was veined in light grey with flecks of something shiny that winked up at her.

A monstrous painting dominated the wall across from Ginny, a semi-idyllic scene of a woman with tenuous lines and indescribable shape billowing through a meadow, single adornment a sheer dress. The rosy fingers of dawn tickled at the edges of the sky, highlighting the emerging light of morning in the left corner. At the other edge of the painting, however, a tempest unlike any she'd ever seen raged silently, indicating that the scene depicted was the calm before the storm.

The landscape also had an interesting characteristic: closest to the sunrise, the colors were vivid and striking, inviting one to reach out and feel how real they were. She wanted to touch a leaf and see if her fingers would come away damp from the beads of water that sat on its surface. Yet the brilliant colors began to fade the closer they got to the storm, leaving half the painting in monochrome.

The painting, to Ginny's mild surprise, was still.

To her right, the wall opposite the entrance to the room was less of a wall and more of a mountainous pane of continuous glass. It was almost impossible to detect that there was anything there at all. The window opened to a sprawling hedge maze with flashes of quicksilver over marble marking various fountains strategically placed throughout the maze. Splashes of bright flowers attempted to make it so the foreboding piece of landscaping wasn't entirely unwelcoming.

Ginny's mind was almost hyperactively aware and on the cusp of engaging her fight or flight instincts, which she only barely suppressed.

"I'm so glad you could make time for tea, Ginevra—do you mind if I call you Ginevra?"

Laconically, as if she was bored with the whole affair and her survey complete, Ginny turned back to the blonde woman.

"No."

"Wonderful! You may address me as Narcissa, if you wish." Narcissa adjusted the lay of her voluminous skirts needlessly. To Ginny's untrained eye they seemed to sit just fine.

Ginny noticed that the dress—made of the finest spun gold that turned Narcissa's hair into a waterfall of aureate silk—matched perfectly with the upholstery of her chair. She knew it was no coincidence that they matched so well, nor was it a coincidence that her own seat was far cleaner than _she _was. Ginny imagined that when she stood up, a smudgy outline would remain where she had been sitting. It gave her perverse satisfaction to shift ever-so-slightly just to rub more dirt onto the pristine surface of the loveseat.

"Would you care for some tea?" Narcissa questioned, startling Ginny with the break in silence. Without waiting for the redhead to reply, the blonde clapped her hands twice.

A door Ginny hadn't been able to see opened in the wall just when she was about to tell Narcissa that she would rather rip off her wand arm before drinking Malfoy tea (or something to that effect). Her urge to stand up and greet the newcomer with a curse was only assuaged by her realization that the woman at the door (with a stumpy house elf at her knees) was Susan Bones.

The blonde's lank hair was swept up in a bun, highlighting the hollows in her cheeks and the sunken, gaunt circles surrounding her murky blue eyes. She looked frighteningly thin—just about the size that Ginny used to be—a drastic contrast to the plump, cheerful Hufflepuff that Ginny remembered.

Those half-lidded eyes glanced towards Ginny, then Narcissa, and back to the porcelain tea tray in her hands.

Ginny hadn't seen any sort of recognition in those empty eyes.

"_Move, _Mudblood!"

The house elf, who had gone largely unnoticed by Ginny, whacked Susan right above her ankle with what looked like a narrow strip of bamboo. Ginny watched Susan wince but maintain her balance with a skill that bespoke long practice. The blonde shuffled forward slowly, bending at her waist to place the tray on the coffee table in front of Narcissa and Ginny.

"To_day, _you filthy woman," the house elf growled menacingly, accompanying it with a savage slash at Susan's ankle. Another wince that didn't affect the steadiness of her hands was the only sign that she'd even felt the strike as she poured the first cup of tea.

"Really, Milly, show some discretion," Narcissa finally said as she received her cup of tea, stirring as Susan dropped in a cube of sugar with tiny silver tongs.

The house elf muttered something that sounded like "Yes, Mistress," before whacking at Susan's ankle again, this time with enough force that Susan's hands fumbled just the slightest bit when she was pouring Ginny's tea. A few drops landed outside of the cup, and she stared uncomprehendingly before pleas began to fall from her lips like a continuous stream of heavy pebbles.

"Mistress, please don't—I'm so _sorry_. It'll never happen again. I promise. I'll do everything in my power to make sure it never, ever happens again—"

"That's enough," Narcissa said, her voice never varying from the frosty pleasantness that she'd used for Ginny.

With shaking hands, Susan handed Ginny a tea cup that nearly hopped off its saucer from the speed at which it shook. Ginny didn't think it would be right to say thank you, so she didn't. She could only watch with a sort of horror veiled behind layers of indifference as Susan picked up the tray, house elf at her heels as she limped out of the room. Ginny caught a glimpse of her ankle before it vanished out of sight: it was a bloody, scarlet mess.

"Servants these days," Narcissa sighed.

Susan's situation was something that Ginny had never heard of, simply because the Order didn't have the resources to know what happened inside the households of the darkest. They had speculated, of course, and Ginny didn't doubt that somewhere in the house lay a torture room, but this was something she couldn't have fathomed.

How many ex-Order members were in similar predicaments in high society? It was with a sickening lurch that she realized that some of the people they had counted for dead might merely be serving those they had once fought, lower than even house elves in these household hierarchies. This was an atrocity that they hadn't known, _couldn't _have known.

"I can see that associating with that unwashed band of Mudbloods and half-bloods who fancy themselves rebels has affected your social skills," Narcissa commented mildly, punctuated by a sip of her tea.

Ginny bristled, but didn't say anything about Narcissa's antagonistic words.

"Then you realize this is a waste of time," Ginny said abruptly, stirring her tea idly with a spoon. It was simply something to do with her hands; she wasn't going to actually drinkthe tea.

"Some would argue that this meeting in itself is a waste of time," Narcissa said, a brief moment of frankness that startled Ginny. "Come, then. I have something to show you."

Depositing her cup of tea on the coffee table, Narcissa stood, the very picture of elegance as she stared down her nose at Ginny. She seemed to be saying, "Well, what are you waiting for?"before she swept out of the room, leaving Ginny to practically scramble in her wake.

The blonde took a right outside of the sitting room, gliding down a brightly lit hallway that Ginny was positive she hadn't seen before. It reminded her of Hogwarts in a way that both twisted her heart and, if possible, put her on guard even more. How much of what she'd seen was merely a façade for something else? She didn't want to know.

Narcissa's strides were long and commanding, the reverse of what she would have suspected of a trophy wife. Even though Ginny had long before decided to toss any preconceived notions she had simply to save herself from being visibly surprised, she couldn't help but be stunned each and every time she was proven wrong.

It was a relatively short walk to their destination, which turned out to be the library. Ginny memorized the turns they took (right, left, right) and how quickly it would take to get back out (roughly a minute sprinting, with the turns as left, right, right, left, left, right, left). The library was similar to the sitting room in that it had an entire wall of glass. Ginny figured it would be enchanted because she certainly couldn't recall seeing so many large panes of glass on the outside of the Manor.

The remaining walls were covered in rows upon rows of books, all neatly stacked and no doubt meticulously organized. The wood of the bookshelves was a deep red, and the carpet was a welcoming cream that matched the color of the sitting room. There were a cluster of seats to the left, mostly consisting of burgundy leather and single seats offset by floating balls of witchlight that were currently off. To the right was a long table, presumably for research, and in the very center of the room was an impressively large tome on a pedestal.

Narcissa strode directly to the centerpiece, beckoning Ginny to follow when the redhead stood in the doorway cautiously.

"This is the reason why you're here today, Ginevra," Narcissa said, her voice devoid of the pleasant undercurrent it had previously held.

Curiosity overtaking her, Ginny walked closer, standing next to Narcissa but still keeping a healthy distance from the blonde. Ginny had to consciously unclench her hand from her wand.

The book was open to what seemed to be a family tree, and Ginny's sense of trepidation rose tenfold. She knew without seeing what Narcissa would be looking at, but she humored Narcissa by glancing at what her slim, manicured finger was pointing at.

Lucius Ingatius Malfoy was joined by an elegantly curved line with a tiny "m." in the middle to Narcissa Ascella Black. A single line below their joining led to Draco Endymion Malfoy. Next to his name was another curved line, unadorned with the "m." that his parents' union had, that led to her name, Ginevra Molly Weasley.

Below those two names was another line that led to "Malfoy Heir" underlined in delicate gold.

"You see my dilemma, Ginevra?" Narcissa asked softly when it became clear that Ginny wasn't going to say anything. "My son goes and impregnates the daughter of our enemies, beloved of the Order itself, and I find out from our family tree. You must sympathize with my position."

Ginny didn't speak. Her mind was racing. Just what did Narcissa want her to do? She most certainly would not get rid of the child, and would leave if Narcissa even hinted at that. And she didn't want to let the Malfoys carry on as if she was a mule to carry their heir for nine months, and then promptly give up her baby and be killed. Narcissa was an element that her years of warfare certainly couldn't prepare her for, a wild card who was almost as unpredictable as her son.

Unconsciously, Ginny's left hand slipped down to press against her abdomen.

"Let's return to the sitting room, Ginny. Maybe the tea can loosen your tongue."

Now Ginny was sure she was getting paranoid. Her first thought when she heard "loosen your tongue" was that Narcissa had slipped Veritaserum in her tea, but there were much more simplistic ways to get an answer out of someone these days. Instead of panicking (or panicking more than she already was), she followed Narcissa back to the sitting room, where the tea lay out in the same place it had been previously.

Ginny did note that in their absence, however, the tea that Susan spilled had been cleaned up.

"I'm assuming that your reticence to speak has something to do with the child in your womb, does it not?" Narcissa, trophy wife that she looked, apparently wasn't hesitant to get right to business, a trait that Ginny appreciated.

Mutely, Ginny nodded in answer.

"What did you believe that I would say?" Narcissa asked, her lips curving in amusement.

"I had no expectations coming to this," Ginny answered cautiously. "I've never been in this sort of situation before."

"Well, that's reassuring," Narcissa said with a hint of her earlier sneer. "I can not imagine what the Dark Lord would say if all his pureblooded families began giving birth to children with Weasley-red hair."

Ginny swallowed the remark that was on the tip of her tongue.

"I've known about my grandchild for the better part of a fortnight now," Narcissa began, obviously used to carrying a conversation alone. "Lucius has known for less time than that, because I knew it'd be simpler to ease him into it."

Ginny doubted that Lucius Malfoy could be eased into anything involving the subject of his son and a blood traitor copulating.

"And?" Ginny asked, allowing her impatience to show in her voice. The quicker they got to the point, the quicker she could get the hell out of there.

"Blood-traitor or not, you are still a pureblood whose ancestry matches any of the purebloods that support the Dark Lord. And while I doubt any sort of formal union shall come from Draco and you, I think it best that we get an heir before my son's sanity permanently expires and makes any subsequent heirs equally unstable."

Narcissa leveled her cold blue eyes at Ginny, making it very clear that she in no way lived in any sort of delusion. Narcissa didn't seem, now that Ginny'd met her, like the type of woman who would stand idly by in ignorance while her husband and son committed atrocious and damning acts on hundreds of people. It made sense that she would know about her son's tenuous grasp on sanity.

"Draco and I don't exactly have an amicable relationship," Ginny said, only just remembering to call him "Draco" rather than "Malfoy".

She imagined that she could feel his Mark of Cain on her stomach like a brand. She hoped she could figure out a way to get it off, and _soon_.

"I understand that, and with that knowledge I'm going to ignore the circumstances under which you managed to get pregnant. That is one thing I do not want to know."

That was something Ginny could avoid talking about, too. For one, that would require revealing that she had infiltrated Halcyon Days, and secondly that meant discussing her sex life with Narcissa Malfoy. Not that she _had _a sex life, per se, but it was obviously a topic she'd rather avoid.

"I want to ensure that my grandchild gets the best nutrition possible, and I know that your current diet is a little . . . lacking," Narcissa said with a haughty sniff.

This drew a reaction from Ginny, a slight frown creasing her eyebrows. She certainly didn't need to be rebuked for her lack of food from the wife of one of the men that made it so.

"That is no fault of mine," Ginny bit back.

Narcissa gave a shrug as if to say that she didn't care for her plight. "It matters not how you get—or in this case, don't get—your food. What matters is my grandchild getting the appropriate foods and nourishment."

"How do you expect me to hide the evidence that I'm eating better than I have in half a decade?"

Narcissa gaze was what Ginny would describe as exasperated on anyone else's face. "You're a witch, Ginevra. You should be aware that there have been vast improvements in the prenatal nutrition department. There is a way to ensure that the child obtains the appropriate nurturing even if the mother is lacking it."

That sounded cruel to Ginny—feeding the baby while the mother starved—but she really couldn't protest. Narcissa's help was something that she could use, and something she hadn't even thought of yet. She wouldn't be able to feed the baby and herself, especially since she hardly did the latter in the first place.

"How do you expect me to get this, then?"

"You will come to the Manor once a week. I will have a trusted physician on hand who will ensure that the baby is developing at the proper rate and administer the appropriate prenatal vitamins and spells as well."

Ginny balked. She couldn't very well come to the Manor once a _week_. It was difficult enough coming just the once, but once a week? She'd undoubtedly be caught. Not to mention she'd drive herself to an early grave if she had to subject her body to this sort of stress so frequently.

On the heels of that thought Ginny was overwhelmed with the urge to giggle madly. _An early grave from stress. Ha! _

"Why can't you just owl the instructions and vitamins to me?" Ginny asked.

"I am the wife of a high-ranking Death Eater and mother of another high-ranking Death Eater," Narcissa replied frostily. "I highly doubt it would reflect well if it came to light that I was communicating with—and sending prenatal vitamins to—a blood- traitor and member of the Order."

"If I agree to do this, then I want something in return," Ginny finally said. It was chance that Narcissa would even listen—already she could see a little mocking smile curling those thin lips—but she'd see if the blonde would let her pretend that she had something to bargain with. Such an agreement benefited both parties, yes, but Ginny wanted more than that, if she could take it.

"What would that be, Ginevra?" Narcissa asked, obviously well aware that Ginny didn't have any footing to stand on.

"I want unfettered access to the library."

Narcissa's gaze was cool as icicles and twice as sharp. Ginny stared back, eyes defiant and challenging while appearing like she was entitled to everything Narcissa had to give.

It was doubtful that she'd accept at all—

"Done," Narcissa said. "You won't have complete access. Records of the Malfoy family will still be restricted, and you're only allowed one hour a week."

An entire _hour_? This was more than Ginny could have possibly dreamed of. The amount of dark knowledge stored in all those dusty tomes . . . she might even be able to find more about the Mark of Cain! Of course, she'd have to ensure that Narcissa hadn't attached any other strings to the agreement (like accidentally leaving a dark curse on all the books in the library), but other than that, this meeting had more profits that she could have possibly known going into it.

There was a whisper of sound—cloth brushing against cloth—and then the unmistakable sensation of lips pressing to her cheek in a feather-light kiss. She knew who it was without even seeing it and she abruptly froze, her body instantly aware of the larger threat in the room at her back.

"Gin," cooed a voice in her ear, the lips trailing across her cheekbone to nuzzle against the lobe, pushing the hair that had escaped from her braid aside.

"Malfoy, get the fuck away from me before I curse you seven ways to hell," Ginny said tightly, wand already pointing blindly behind her.

"Draco, dear, you know I don't like it when you get blood on the furniture and on my guests," Narcissa said in reprimand, interrupting the sense of sheer terror that had settled over Ginny like a Dementor's cloak. "And Ginevra, watch your language. I don't want my grandchild cursing like a blood traitor when I finally meet him or her."

"Of course, Mother," Malfoy said flippantly, running his fingers over Ginny's brow and down to her temples, painting her as if the blood was merely garish war paint.

She could _smell _him, leaning over her shoulder and casually twining his wand in her hair. He smelled like fresh copper, musky salt, and soured sweat. She knew what that meant: blood, sex, and fear.

Ginny jerked forward, half twisting away from him and pointing her wand directly at him. Malfoy lounged against the back of the loveseat, splattered in crimson and leaving bits of someone else whenever he touched anything. He had replaced his wand to wherever he'd drawn it, those lazy grey eyes settling on her like he was observing a particularly well trained mouse.

"Ginevra, put the wand away," Narcissa said with something akin to exasperation.

"No, Mother, I want to see what happens if someone tries to attack a Malfoy in the Manor," Malfoy snapped, his voice so cutting that Narcissa was silent immediately.

"Fuck you, Malfoy," Ginny hissed.

He shrugged carelessly. "I have more of a right to be here than you do, _Ginevra_," he mocked.

"Draco, go change," Narcissa interrupted, leveling him a look that would have shaken mountains.

Malfoy, in turn, blew Ginny a kiss and sauntered out of the room, unabashedly giving her his back _again. _

"I apologize for the behavior of my son," Narcissa said finally. Ginny had reluctantly returned her wand after a quick _Scourgify, _unwilling to be covered in someone else's life any longer than necessary. She stared at the bloodstained couch, wondering just how in this world this was going to be resolved. They couldn't continue meeting like this; it was too volatile. _They _were too volatile. Sooner or later things were going to explode and Ginny knew with a certainty that when it did, neither of them would survive intact.

"I should be going," Ginny said in lieu of acknowledgement. She wanted to get the hell out of there before Malfoy returned, bereft of blood and looking for more.

"Yes, you should," Narcissa agreed, glancing at a watch that she procured from somewhere. "Lucius should be here soon, and I doubt he'd be all that agreeable with having a blood traitor in his home."

Ginny couldn't agree more. "When should I return?"

"A week from now should be sufficient. If we keep this during the week then there will be less of a chance of it being discovered. Next week I'll adjust the wards so you'll be able to Apparate directly into the Manor."

"Though I should warn you, Weasley," came a low voice that Ginny recognized all-too-well, "that even with the clearance to Apparate on Tuesday afternoons you shall be maimed or worse shall you attempt to Apparate anywhere but the sitting room or the library."

Lucius Malfoy had stepped through the doorway that Draco had so recently exited from, and Ginny decided that she'd seen enough Malfoys today to last her a lifetime.

"You are here on the patience of my lovely wife, and you may realize that I'm not as tolerant as she is."

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind," Ginny replied coldly, remembering how that low drawl had interrogated her (technically as Margaretha Zelle) at Halcyon Days. He'd been indolent and powerful, a king sitting upon a throne of sex and death.

And then Ginny noticed it, gleaming dimly in the lighting and resting on Lucius' dark robes. An amulet, identical to the amulets that they'd seen on every Death Eater for the past two weeks. A quick glance at Narcissa confirmed that there was a silvery necklace that disappeared into the bodice of her gown. Ginny assumed it was an amulet and knew that if she'd bothered she would have found an identical amulet thrown across Draco's neck, blood-splattered and askew.

So it wasn't just the lower ranking Death Eaters wearing them, either. She knew where she was going after this.

"Well? Are you leaving or not?" Lucius demanded impatiently. "Here, I'll even make it easy for you and raise the wards. Now get out."

Ginny didn't spare a second. As she Disapparated, she caught sight of Draco's face as he stormed back into the room, a curious mix of infuriated and heartbroken.

She was glad she had left before he'd had a chance to stop her.

* * *

Ginny Apparated to an obscure location in the English countryside. Immediately, she Disapparated to another location, and then again, and again. Enough places that she could be sure they hadn't somehow tossed a tracker on her as she left. She couldn't afford to practically lead them to Fred and George, or anywhere else, for that matter.

The first thing Fred said to her as she stepped into their room was "About damn time."

She'd given herself a stretch of time to recover from her meeting with the Malfoys, so now she was back to what almost counted as normal for her: collected, distanced, and wary. It also had been a relief to drop her extra shielding.

"I was busy," she said, shrugging out of her coat and dropping it on the bed. "Where's George?"

"Bathroom," was the one-word reply.

Ginny nodded distractedly, more interested in the various materials that were scattered across Fred's workbench.

"Is that an amulet?"

"A deconstructed one, yes," Fred answered. "I've sorted out its components after cutting it open. It's puzzling: there wasn't a single enchantment on the thing, unless you count charms to keep the chain from breaking or the welding spell they used to close it up. It was hollow, as you can see."

He gestured to the two open halves of an amulet. The others that she'd brought him were hanging on nails that had been hammered haphazardly on the wall in front of the workbench.

Ginny stepped closer, waving a few witchlights over so she could clearly see the objects on Fred's bench. The piles were tiny, consisting of what looked like tea leaves and powders. She knew what many of them were, some by sight and others from just general knowledge. Others were so crushed and powdered that it was impossible for her to tell from merely sight. There was one that looked like a crushed bezoar, and another that looked like shredded aconite.

"What are they?" Ginny asked, knowing that if she attempted to identify them any further she'd end up making mistakes.

"A variety of ingredients," Fred said with a careless wave of his hand. A thread of frustration crept into his voice as he continued. "There's Chinese Fireball eggs, murtlap essence, aconite, a bezoar—the list goes on. But we can't seem to determine just what they're used _for_."

"The juxtaposition of ingredients traditionally used in healing potions and poisonous ingredients is baffling," added George as he walked into the room. He paused and gave Ginny a stiff nod.

"George," Ginny greeted, her voice almost flat.

"Ginny," he said.

George, like everyone else that had been through this war, had changed. He still looked the same—hell, he didn't have a single visible scar that she knew of. But something had gone wrong in his head. She sometimes thought it was one of those mental diseases that were always talked about in darkened corners, hidden away in a secret ward in St. Mungo's. Maybe because of the endless amount of psychological trauma and he'd just broken, or maybe it was something else.

She knew when it had occurred. Everyone did. It was no coincidence that George had disappeared for months while Ron was locked away in Azkaban. And when he'd returned, he just wasn't the George who had counted stars with her until she fell asleep in the garden outside the Burrow.

Not that Ginny would actually say anything about it. To ask about his changes was to open up questions about hers, and that was one thing she did not need.

"So we can gather that every Death Eater is wearing an amulet containing various poisons and antidotes, but we don't know what they're used for," Ginny surmised quickly.

Both Fred and George nodded, an echo of the synchrony that had been lost years before.

"It's been incredibly slow going," Fred explained, the frustration still lacing his voice. "We had to be sure that there weren't any curses in place to prevent people like us from tearing apart the amulets, and then sorting out the potion ingredients, carefully shifting them and checking to make sure they were mixed in a particular way—"

"And all for naught," George interrupted when it seemed that Fred was about to rant. "There weren't any curses. Nothing. Only a lump of dried potion ingredients, tossed together haphazardly in a tin container."

Ginny's brow furrowed at the latter part of the statement, the rest simply being a reiteration of what Fred had already told her. "Tin? Does that have any significance?"

"The only thing significant about that is that Tom's being frugal," George said scornfully.

"And the stone on the amulet?"

"A bit of an anomaly, but it's a chunk of uncut ruby," Fred answered, spinning the half of the amulet with the ruby absently in his hand. "With all the amulets that are going around, the total sum of the rubies would be worth a fortune."

"Combined with the tin, you can see why he'd want to save money. Creating these amulets must have cost several galleons at the minimum apiece," George said, flicking his hair out of his eyes in a move Ginny would have once called uncharacteristic.

"But we haven't done anything to the ingredients yet," Fred said, gesturing at the piles on his bench. "We'll start that tomorrow and probably open a few other amulets to see if they have the same ratios and aren't just a random conglomeration of items. And then we'll start experimenting on them."

Ginny nodded, forgetting momentarily that Fred couldn't see her nod. She was grateful that the twins saw fit to include her in this sort of thing; more often than not they didn't. Something must have them spooked to be so willing to share information. Normally she had to wrench it out of them like pulling ribs off the vertebrae.

"You'll keep me updated?"

She tried to make it less of a question and more of a statement, but the hesitancy crept in anyway.

George gave her a look that she knew meant he was debating whether or not to actually comply with her wishes, or if it would be better to just keep her ignorant of what the amulets actually were for.

"We'll keep you updated," Fred confirmed after a sickening silence, unable to see the looks they'd exchanged but knowing what they hadn't said regardless.

"Good," Ginny said firmly. Now that they had that settled, she'd take a shower and pop back to her flat for some much needed rest. Or as close as she got to it, anyway.

"Ginny," George began slowly, and she knew he was no longer on the subject of the amulets. "Fred told me you wanted to know about Draco Malfoy. Do you want to talk?"

For a breathless second, Ginny considered his offer, telling them everything—from what had actually happened at Halcyon Days to the Mark of Cain and then to that awful experience at the Manor earlier that day. She dimly recalled hearing somewhere that talking about your worries lessened the burden, or some bollocks like that. But she knew she couldn't tell them. They were already in a tenuous position with the Order and the Death Eaters as it was, and to further endanger them simply because she hadn't been—and, to be brutally honest, still continued to be—the least bit clever about the situations she kept on finding herself in.

That would simply be cruel.

"I can't."

"You won't," Fred translated, voice devoid of emotion.

"Yes," Ginny said, almost daring them to challenge her on it.

But other than the bitter look on George's face, no such challenge came. Their agreement stretched even to this, the epitome of the saying "ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies."

"There's something else, if you'd be willing to do it," Fred continued, obviously more willing to let Ginny's problems remain her own than George was.

"What does it entail?" Ginny asked warily. Since their last task for her had found her impregnated with Malfoy seed, she was slightly more hesitant to accept than she'd been in the past.

"A simple delivery job," George said dismissively, pulling out a crisp ivory envelope. "This needs to be given directly to Theodore Nott."

"Nott?" Ginny said, the question ringing with curiosity.

As far as she knew, Theodore Nott was just below the inner circle. The twins had only given her an infiltration job this intricate once, and that was the previous one at Halcyon Days. Either they were growing confident in her abilities to deceive or they had simply ceased to care about rational inhibitions.

"Yes, Nott. The younger, not the elder," George clarified. "You can go in disguise if you want but it will make no difference."

George's statement could have a variety of meanings—Nott had identification wards set up so he'd know whether she was Polyjuiced or not, Nott wouldn't be able to tell the difference anyway, Nott didn't care if she was a part of the Order or not—but she guessed at the most likely.

"Is he . . . one of yours?"

She was hesitant to say "one of ours" because whichever side the twins were on wasn't strictly the Order's, which was the side that she currently identified with. Yes, she worked for them often and she wouldn't hesitate to risk her life for them, but she couldn't exactly say the same for them.

"In a sense," George hedged, not full answering her.

Ginny deduced that their relationship was similar to hers and Pansy's. They were friendly in the way that they wouldn't immediately cast curses upon sight, but not nearly amicable enough to warrant anything more than a few wary communications.

Ginny reached out and took the letter from George's outstretched hand.

She was almost grateful she wouldn't have any time with her thoughts that night.

* * *

A/N: I apologize for the delay in the chapter! Oh my goodness, it's been half a year. I didn't think it'd been that long. :|

Beta'd by the amazing **Incognito** who suffered through its length and my badgering with admirable equanimity.

I'm hoping this chapter raised more questions than it answered. And there's some stuff thrown in here that you probably won't even realize is significant until later, so that makes me feel rather accomplished as an author. And this is the longest chapter yet. I need to tone it down a bit, methinks.

Questions? Comments? Just let me know. Review replies will happen when my head ceases to feel like it's stuffed with wool. But if you've made it down this far . . . thank you so much for sticking with this story! :D *hugs and showers with cookies*

Roma


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